


i didn't know i was lonely till i saw your face

by clarkegriffvn, foolanyfriend



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Bad Matchmaking, Bad Puns, Bartender!Clarke, Drinking Games, F/M, Friends to Lovers, History Teacher!Bellamy, Jealousy, M/M, Moving On From Past Relationships, New Girl au, Pining, Raven 'Fight Me' Reyes, Robot-Related Arguments, The Douchebag Jar, The100Duets, True American
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4783652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarkegriffvn/pseuds/clarkegriffvn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolanyfriend/pseuds/foolanyfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Clarke settles back on the couch, pushing aside all thoughts of Bellamy Blake. He’s off-limits. He’s Octavia’s brother. He’s their new roommate. He’s just gotten out of a long-term relationship. The list of reasons why Bellamy is forbidden is endless. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>But the memory of him still lingers on her skin and in her thoughts regardless. No matter what logic tells her, she can’t get rid of him. Not completely.</i>
</p>
<p>Families can be a lot of work. Found families? Even worse. But dropout-turned-bartender Clarke Griffin wouldn't have it any other way. She doesn’t know what she’d do without her mismatched group of friends, the apartment they share the only place she calls home. Raven, Miller, Octavia and her have stumbled through life, helping each other out  during tough times and celebrating the good ones.</p>
<p>Then, Octavia's brother Bellamy catches his girlfriend cheating and needs a place to stay. They're quick to take him in, but Clarke is taken aback when she discovers that her feelings for him might be a little more than familial.</p>
<p>
  <b>RUNNER UP IN THE 2016 BELLARKE FANFICTION AWARDS: BEST ROOMMATES FIC</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, it's finally here. Hi, I'm clarkegriffvn and you don't know this, but this fic is my child. I mean I only have partial custody because wullgorski was my brilliant partner writing it, but in all seriousness, writing this has meant so much to me. It's been such an amazing journey, and I am so proud of what we've accomplished.
> 
> also hi! i'm foolanyfriend/wullgorski (the pain of having a different tumblr url to your ao3 username) and i'd also like to just basically thank people for clicking on this, and also thank the lovely mods of the100duets for pairing us up, i'm honestly so proud of this fic it's unreal. i don't want to ramble, so i hope you enjoy!
> 
> there's a picset for this fic you can reblog [_here_](http://clarkegriffvn.tumblr.com/post/129537670951/i-didnt-know-i-was-lonely-till-i-saw-your-face-a), and title credit goes to "i wanna get better" by bleachers

"So you know in horror movies, when the girl's like _'Oh no, there's something in the basement, let me just run down there in my underwear and see what's going on, in the dark,'_ and you're like _'What is your problem? Call the police.'_ And she's like _'Okay,'_ but it's too late because she's already getting murdered? Well, my brother's story is kind of like that.

"See, there was this girl, and Bell thought they were _it_ , you know? Like total 2.5 kids, white picket fence and a labrador, all that shit. But what he didn't know was that she was five foot six inches of pure, concentrated evil. l mean, I knew from the start, don't get me wrong, I could tell shit was coming. Nothing gets past me. But this girl, when they first started seeing each other it was great! Total sophomore sweethearts, if that's even a thing. They were together for years.

"But then like a month ago, Bell was meant to be at this conference for history teachers? It would have meant missing their anniversary but Bell went anyway and then left early because he's the world's biggest romantic dork. And he means to show up at their apartment and take her out for dinner; you know, wine and dine her? So he walks in and it's great, she's thrilled to see him and they're just about to leave when his coworker walks out of Bell's bedroom, naked as the day he was born?

"And that was majorly upsetting, obviously, and Bell phoned me and I said to him that he could stay with me and Lincoln. But then he thought that was weird so I told him he could stay with you guys! Because it turns out that the lease to their apartment isn't actually in Bell's name at all; and then our call kind of devolved into this rant about how evil she was, it really wasn't great, painted us in a really bad light, like _nothing_ about it was good...

"...  but anyway, that's why he needs a new apartment, he's been sleeping on our couch and it's getting kind of weird. I'm sorry, what was the question?" Octavia finishes. Clarke is amazed by her lung capacity and practically bored to tears.

"How was your weekend?" she answers flatly.

“Not as great as mine!” Raven interrupts before Octavia can reply, entering the living room. She flops down on the couch, putting her feet up next to Clarke. “So tell us more about this Bellamy guy. I could use some fresh meat around here.”

“Okay, first of all,” Octavia says, rolling her eyes. “ _Gross_ , Raven, that’s my brother you’re talking about.”

“And second?” prompts Clarke. She eyes Raven’s feet next to her, then pushes them off.

“He’s a history teacher and a huge nerd - seriously, he collected Lord of the Rings figurines for _three solid years_ \-  but he knows how to cook and-”

“I like him already,” Raven interrupts. “If I have to put up with Miller’s attempts at scrambled eggs one more time, I swear to God…”

Miller, hearing his name, walks in with a bowl of chips, practically overflowing with each step he takes. As he sits down next to Raven, the bowl sways precariously.

“Hey! My eggs aren’t that bad.”

Raven just sighs, shaking her head. She steals one of his chips and pops it in her mouth. “If it’ll make you feel better, then they’re the best I’ve ever had.”

“So are we just gathered here to insult my cooking, or…?” asks Miller, indignant.

Octavia laughs, turning towards him. “No, Bellamy needs a place to stay and I was kinda hoping that you guys would take him in out of the goodness of your hearts?” She looks to Clarke, who isn’t convinced, with pleading eyes.

“Octavia, we _can’t_ ,” Clarke rationalises. “Technically speaking, we’re only meant to have three people staying here; and God knows we may as well count you too.”

Octavia ramps up her puppy dog eyes, and Raven is forced to avert her gaze.

“Oh God, I can’t even look at her. Make it stop!”

“It’s disgusting,” Miller agrees, shoving a handful of chips into his mouth and chewing noisily. Clarke has to stop herself from wrinkling her nose at the sight.

“Says you?” she asks, with a pointed look towards the chips. “Jar, now.”

Miller groans in protest, but reaches in his pocket to pull out his wallet anyway. Raven reaches behind her to grab a mason jar that’s half-filled with coins and dollar bills, haphazardly decorated with glitter and labelled ‘Douchebag Jar.’ She presents it to Miller with a mocking flourish, a wide grin on her face. He puts in a dollar, to which Raven raises an eyebrow, and they hold eye contact for three tense seconds until Miller crumbles under the pressure, tossing in the rest of his change.

Octavia laughs. “I can’t wait til my brother fills that thing up.”

“It’s an honest cause!” Clarke defends. “We _need_ that alcohol fund.”

Miller stops eating his chips to look at her.

“Clarke. You work at a _bar_.”

“Wait,” Raven says, turning to Octavia. “You’re not saying he’s a douchebag, are you? Cause we need someone to help with rent, not piss us off.”

“No no no no,” Octavia says quickly, panicked. “He’s a nice guy, I promise.”

“Nice guy?” Miller asks with an arch of his eyebrow. “Or _nice_ guy?”

“He’s a good guy!” Octavia amends exasperatedly. “I wouldn’t raise him to be a douchebag, I swear.”

Clarke snorts a laugh, stealing Miller’s half-empty bowl of chips. “Technically he raised you, unless you had some twisted foetal superpowers going on.”

“I was a gifted child,” Octavia proclaims, flipping her hair and inadvertently hitting Miller with the trailing ends. He ignores it, with the seasoned patience of someone who lives with two girls.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Raven cuts in. “We need a new roommate and Bellamy needs a new apartment. All in favor?”

She raises her hand as she speaks, and Octavia smiles giddily. Miller huffs and raises his too, after a moment of consideration. Heads turn to Clarke, who’s sitting with her arms crossed.

“What?” she snaps, aggrieved. “Like I said, we aren’t _allowed_ four people in this apartment.”

“It’s only temporary!” argues Octavia. “Please, Clarke!”

“Kane literally never comes up to check on us,” Raven points out, referring to their sketchy landlord who has a penchant for truly horrifying Hawaiian shirts. “We could be running a drug cartel and he wouldn’t notice.”

“True,” Miller agrees. “He’d probably just ask for a cut of our profits, the cheap bastard. And I’d kill for another guy around here -  have you seen this place? I’m practically drowning in estrogen.”

“Jar!” Clarke, Octavia and Raven chime in unison.

Miller rolls his eyes and gestures to his empty wallet, lying abandoned on the coffee table.

“Would that I could,” he says tiredly. “But I literally have no money left. You better not waste my hard earned, _unfairly taken_ cash on shitty booze, Clarke.”

“Hey!” Clarke says, offended. “I have excellent taste in booze!”

Raven crosses her arms, glaring at her bickering roommates. “Stop that, you two! Clarke, we need an answer. Can Bellamy move in, yes or no?”

Clarke sighs dramatically, sinking back into the couch. “I guess I _could_ see the benefits. Maybe it’d stop you moaning about paying most--”

“All,” Raven interjects.

Clarke makes a face and continues. “ _All_ of the rent. And maybe it _would_ be nice to live with someone who can actually make a decent meal.”

“Think of the other benefits,” Raven adds, leaning in to close the sale. “You won’t always have to be the sober one! And maybe he has hot friends - we can get you back out there.”

Clarke straightens at the mention of potential eye-candy. It’s been a long, _lonely_ few months since Lexa dumped Clarke on her ass in favor of her childhood sweetheart, Costia. Not that she’s bitter, or anything.

Octavia crosses her fingers, bouncing in her chair excitedly.

“So he can move in? Great!” She enthuses, then checks her phone. “He’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

Miller stares at her. “You mean to say that you already said he could move in? Without asking us?”

Everyone turns their heads to glare accusingly at Octavia, who shrinks back in her seat. She has the decency to act sheepish, at least.

“He was really upset, okay?” she says defensively. “Besides, you guys will thank me later, I promise.”

 

*****

 

They’re definitely _not_ thanking her later. The problem isn’t living with one extra occupant, no. That gets easy as soon as Bellamy takes the smallest bedroom without complaint - a room that was formerly the overflow wardrobe and home to Miller’s precious beanie collection.

In fact, they accept Bellamy pretty much the second he shows up at their door, duffle bag clutched to his chest and suitcase in tow. Clarke watches as Bellamy makes his way through the door, dragging her eyes down his frame in a way that hopefully doesn’t come off as explicit as it feels. His hair is unspeakably sexy, brown curls thrown in all directions. He blinks at all of them, eyes underlined with dark shadows as he takes in their faces.

"Hi," is all he manages.  
  
As Octavia throws herself into his arms, the roommates share a look. Miller looks happier already from the idea of having another guy around, and Raven's eyes bore into Clarke, pleading: _Can we keep him?_ **  
**

Clarke sighs and looks back at Bellamy, brow furrowed as he wraps his arms around Octavia, probably squeezing the life out of her. Raven pokes her in the shoulder and Clarke uncrosses her arms, sighing. _Fine_.

He’s decent company, Clarke quickly learns - when he isn’t yelling at history channel reruns about blatant inaccuracies, that is. Bellamy can hold up a conversation, and has a sarcastic, dry sense of humour. He fits in.

Although maybe the Lord of the Rings collectables are a _little_ bit off-putting.  Logically, everyone has their quirks, but there’s a difference between ‘adorkable’ flaws and rows upon rows of meticulously arranged figurines. Thankfully, they’re much less disturbing when they’re hidden away in Bellamy’s room so that Clarke can’t see them, instead of just sitting on the living room floor and staring at her with their beady little eyes.

Even that’s pretty manageable. It’s no less idiosyncratic than Raven’s early morning treadmill sessions in their living room, or how, when Clarke was in med school, she used to blast classical music to help her study.  Besides, it’s something for he and Miller to bond over, although Miller enjoys the Lord of the Rings to a far less obsessive degree.

But then there’s his cat. No, it isn’t a cat. It’s the demon-possessed body of an aging orange tabby. Miller avoids the monster at all costs, Raven threatens to throw it out the window twice a day, and Octavia constantly chases it around in a vain bid to force it to love her. So of _course_ the damn thing imprints on Clarke from the word go.

She refuses to dignify it with a name; a vow made immeasurably easier by the fact that Bellamy calls it Cleocatra. _Cleocatra_. Technically, it’s Cleo for short, although Clarke rejects that on principle.

Not only has it made it a ritual to walk across her keyboard the second she gets her laptop out, but then it gives her that look. It’s possibly the most smug look a one-eyed cat can manage, and it oozes superiority. Finally, inevitably, the godforsaken thing will start to meow, and won’t shut up until Clarke pets it. Which she doesn't. Most of the time.

Even Cleocatra the she-demon pales in comparison to the real issue at hand. Bellamy hasn’t left the apartment in _nine_ days.

The first day is fine; unremarkable, even. Octavia’s there to help move Bellamy in, a blur of hair and excitement. Introductions are made, and Miller takes Bellamy on a tour while the girls help carry his stuff, with Raven confiding to Clarke that she’s only doing it so that she can con Bellamy into making dinner. It works, too, and he makes an amazingly complicated pasta dish, full of flavour - and more importantly, liberally sprinkled with bacon - which the group of tired and hungry friends demolish in a matter of minutes.

In no time at all, the plates have been scraped clean and Octavia’s gone. Clarke waits until Miller and Bellamy are bro-ing out in the kitchen before grabbing Raven’s arm and dragging her into the bathroom. Raven pulls away as soon as Clarke pushes her in, slamming the door behind them.

“What the hell, Griffin!?” Raven exclaims, washed out in the harsh fluorescent light. She rubs her arm and scowls. “If this bruises, I swear to God.”

Clarke purses her lips, knowing full well she didn’t grab Raven hard enough to do any damage.

“We need to talk,” she states.

“About…?”

“The sex eyes you were giving Bellamy earlier!” Clarke hisses, not wanting to be overheard. Loud laughs echo from the kitchen and she moves away from the door a little.  “He’s our new roommate, Raven, you can’t fuck that up!”

Raven rolls her eyes, leaning against the vanity counter. “I was just being friendly!”

Clarke scoffs, incensed. “Hah! Sure. Because I look at all my friends like I want them to pin me up against a wall.”

Raven opens her mouth to protest, then pauses as if she’s considering Clarke’s words. She raises an eyebrow.

“I mean…”

“Wow, remind me to not let you near him anymore,” Clarke notes. She shakes her head, trying not to think about how hopeless her efforts are.

“Wait,” Raven interrupts, a triumphant glint in her eye. “Are you jealous?”

Clarke’s jaw drops and she steps back slightly, pressing against the bathroom cabinet.

“No!” She splutters. “Why would you even- we only met him today!”

“So?” Raven shrugs, unconcerned.

“He’s Octavia’s brother. And our roommate!”

“So?” Raven repeats. “He’s single, _I’m_ single - you’re unattached too... Hey! How about we--”

“No,” Clarke cuts her off firmly.

“But what if--”

“ _No_.”

“You’re no fun,” Raven grumbles.

Clarke huffs and crosses her arms. She needs to get to the point.

“Look, we can’t risk fucking up the roommate dynamic. Because when something inevitably goes wrong, it won’t just be awkward for the parties involved, but for the other people that live here too.”

“I get it, friendship is sacred, blah blah blah. Fine. I’ll keep my hands off him if you do. Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy looking at him though…” Raven grins, and wiggles her eyebrows.

“Gross, Raven, none of that either. He’s a human being.”

“Clarke, don’t even pretend to be all holier-than-thou,” Raven smirks. “I saw you looking earlier. That pasta got you going, don’t deny it.”

Clarke bites her lip, hard, and tries to dispel the image of Bellamy in an apron and nothing else that refuses to leave her mind. She blushes furiously and looks away from Raven, avoiding the brunette’s smug gaze.

“I fucking knew it!” Raven crows victoriously.

Clarke shushes her awful, traitorous friend and puts her face in her hands. Raven, on the other hand, looks like she’s about to burst into laughter.

“I admit he’s hot, okay?” Clarke finally says, swallowing her pride. “I’m a functioning human being; I have eyes. But sleeping with him would just end badly for all of us. And we can’t just kick him out if things get weird - we owe Octavia. If I’m not going to sleep with him, neither are you. We’re in this together. Deal?”

“Deal,” Raven agrees reluctantly. “And believe me, you have no idea how much self-restraint it’s taking me to refrain from making a High School Musical joke right now.”

Clarke groans and shoves at Raven’s arm, making sure to aim for the area that she grabbed earlier.

“Ow! Geez, be careful,” Raven yelps. She sulks as she moves past Clarke to open the door. “Come on, I don’t want anybody thinking we’ve fallen in the toilet and drowned or something.”

Clarke huffs a laugh and follows Raven back into the living room. Miller and Bellamy are cleaning up in the  kitchen, chatting as if they’ve been friends for years. She catches hints of their conversation - _“No, man, what the fuck? Frodo’s a way better character.”_ \- but she can’t bring herself to pay any more attention than that.

It almost feels as if Bellamy’s always lived with them, stopping a hole in the apartment that Clarke didn’t know needed filling. She settles back into the sofa, her feet tucked in beneath her, and listens as Bellamy and Miller’s voices wash over her, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. It feels right, being here, like all the pieces of her life have finally fallen into place. She feels at home.

 

*****

 

On the fourth day, Clarke takes a stand. Bellamy’s been camped out on the couch for an uncomfortably long period of time, and she can’t take it anymore. The whole living room now carries the unmistakable odor of recently-dumped man, all aged whiskey and self-loathing.

“You _have_ to get some sunlight,” she orders, hands planted on the back of the couch. “And maybe stop hogging the TV - because while I’m sure that the hierarchies of Ancient Rome are incredibly fascinating, I’d like to watch something where there isn’t a violent death every two minutes.”

Bellamy shoots her a disgruntled glare and, rolling his eyes in a motion eerily similar to Octavia, turns back to the TV. The devil-cat on his lap mirrors his look of disdain and hops off, sauntering away. Bellamy doesn’t even dignify her with a response, the bastard. Clarke throws her hands up in the air, huffing out a frustrated puff of air.

“Real mature, Bellamy. Sure, fine, ignore me until I go away.”

Clarke stands there pointedly a few moments more, awaiting his response, but none comes. She spins on her heel, stalking out of the room with her shoulders high. Halfway down the hallway, however, Miller pops out of his room, holding out his hands to stop her.

“Woah woah woah,” he starts, reaching to grab her shoulders. “What are you doing? You can’t leave him like that.”

Clarke scowls in response, shrugging violently to displace Miller’s hands. She moves to side-step past him and sidle into her bedroom - the door is right there! - but Miller’s too fast for her. Clarke straightens her back and looks him in the eye challengingly.

“I can do what I want. And so can he, evidently. It’s none of my business if a grown man wants to sit and mope over the Romans, but could he maybe not do it in our _shared_ living room? This is your fault; I told you it was a bad idea.”

Miller shakes his head, mouthing the word: _unbelievable_.

“He just got out of a relationship,” Miller argues. “Cut him some slack! Do you have any idea how much of a mess you were after Lexa?”

“I was fine after Lexa, thank you very much. I handled it in a mature, _adult_ way.”

“Clarke,” Miller says flatly. “You watched Grey’s Anatomy reruns and did a shot every time there was a medical inaccuracy. Raven and I were seriously worried for your health.”

Clarke shudders at the thought. She’s purposely erased that horrible week from her memory (or was that the alcohol’s fault?) and glares at Miller for bringing it up. It was a dark time, okay? She dares Miller to get dumped in the most casually callous way possible and be completely fine afterwards.

And it’s not like she went completely crazy. There were _maybe_ a couple of ill-advised, drunken voicemails, but everyone with a broken heart does that, right?

MIller’s shoulders sag as he sees her bitterness. He moves aside to let her pass, but gets a few words in, trying to change her mind.

“He needs to talk. You’re good at that shit, you know? Putting people back together. You _were_ almost a  doctor, and now you’re bartender, so you’re practically a licensed therapist.”

Clarke stops and turns around, some of her fire gone.

“Why don’t you talk to him? You guys are ‘best bros’ now, after all.”

Miller huffs a laugh, as if her idea is as ridiculous and outlandish as they get. “Clarke. We’re men. We don’t discuss feelings, like ever. We don’t even acknowledge that we _have_ them.”

“Men? Are you kidding me? That _man_ ,” she points to the living room, where Bellamy has started yet another fit of swearing. “Has been crying into his drink on the couch for the past twenty minutes. And don’t even get me started on you! I still have video proof of you dancing to ‘Single Ladies’ half-naked with a lampshade on your head.”

Miller’s eyes narrow at her, outraged that she’d even bring it up. “Everyone deals with shit differently, Clarke. And that was under the influence of True American, you _know_ how important that game is to me. Please, talk to Bellamy. Do it for me.”

At that, Clarke looks tiredly in the direction of the living room. Her temper flickers, then dies out completely. It’s hard to stay angry at one of her oldest friends, and even harder to stay angry at a high school teacher who’s currently a heartbroken mess, curled up on her couch like a lost puppy. It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?

“Fine, I’ll talk to him. But if he starts crying about the lost Library of Alexandria one more time, I’m sending him to you.”

“I don’t blame him for crying about that,” Miller says, with what he clearly believes is a winning smile. “It was a tragic loss of knowledge!”

Clarke just flips him off in response, and Miller’s laughter echoes down the hallway as she turns back into the living room. She takes a breath, giving herself a mental pep talk.

When she enters the room, Bellamy shifts in his spot and refuses to acknowledge her.  He stares straight forward, eyes boring into the wall, perfectly still.  Clarke wouldn't be all that surprised if the wallpaper started to peel off.

She sits hesitantly on the far end of the couch, and he glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Look,” Clarke begins, “I know what you’re feeling--”

Bellamy snorts in disbelief, reaching for his drink.

“No, really. I wish I didn’t, but I do.”

Bellamy’s hand stops. It must be something in her voice that makes him look over at her, waiting for her to continue.

“Six months ago, I was on this couch just like you. A heartbroken wreck, ice cream in lap, mascara halfway down my face. I just couldn’t stop thinking about our first date, or the way she laughed, and I'd get these sharp, sudden pangs in my chest. My head would get heavy, and then that awful swooping feeling in my gut would come. And there was the intense... _desperatio_ _n,_ even though I'm not even sure what I was desperate for. I didn't want it to end, didn't want to accept it.”

She stops and blinks a few times, wondering where all that came from. When Bellamy speaks, it surprises her. She’d almost forgotten he was there.

“What did you do?” he asks, an edge of vulnerability in his voice. “To accept it. To move on.”

Clarke exhales and looks over at him. His eyes are focused on his thumb as it runs over the edge of the blanket wrapped around him, his eyebrows drawn together as he waits for her to answer. There’s a stain on his shirt and his hair is a frizzed mess, head ducked low as it shades most of his face.

“It wasn’t easy. My friends tried to help, but there was only so much they could do for me. I was letting my emotions control me in an unhealthy way. Once I took charge, took responsibility, things changed. I moved out of her place, cut ties, picked up more shifts at the bar. I did what I could until the pain stopped coming.”

Bellamy looks up at her questioningly.

“Gone completely? Just like that?”

“No,” she answers, lips pressed together in a wry smile. “But almost. And you have to tell yourself that that’s enough.”

“It feels like it’ll never go away,” Bellamy admits. “Like one day I’ll wake up and I’ll be a bitter old man who’s yelling at kids to get off my lawn, all because my girlfriend cheated on me. You know, if she hadn’t, I would have _married_ her.”

Clarke moves closer hesitantly, the ancient sofa groaning under her as she shifts her weight. She debates reaching out to comfort Bellamy, but chickens out at the last second, settling instead for giving him a sympathetic nod.

“But she did, and you didn’t. In a way, that breakup saved you from a painful divorce. It was bound to happen, no matter what you did right or wrong. Relationships end for a reason.”

Clarke tilts her head to the side, watching as her words take effect in Bellamy. His back seems to straighten and he takes a deep breath, one hand rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. He nods absently, and Clarke notices how _tired_ he looks. It sends an unexpected rush of sympathy through her, but she bites her lip, scared of stepping over boundaries. She barely knows the guy, after all. She reaches for anything to say to break the unnervingly intimate silence.

“You smell awful, you know,” she criticizes, hoping, if nothing else, to at least get a reaction out of him.

Bellamy looks down at his rumpled clothes, nose wrinkling like he’s just noticed his total lack of hygiene. Clarke isn’t one to mince words, not usually, but she’s pretty sure that erring on the side of caution is the right way to handle Bellamy right now.

“Shower?” he asks abashedly.

“Shower,” Clarke echoes, standing up from the couch.

Bellamy laughs, and it makes Clarke smile warmly, proud to have brought him around. She reaches down and grabs him by the arm, half-pulling him up and exaggerating the effort. He grips her hand tightly, and Clarke feels a fire ignite where they touch. Suddenly, they’re close, too close, her hand tingling from the contact. Bellamy’s face is inches away from hers, his expression unreadable. Clarke swallows and steps away quickly, consciously moving back to put an appropriate amount of space between them.

“I’m just going to…” Bellamy breathes, and even though Clarke’s moved away he’s still looking at her with those stupidly big brown eyes.

“Yeah,” Clarke manages to choke out. “You do th--”

“Hey guys, have you seen my charger?” Miller interrupts, walking out of his room and causing the tension to dissipate abruptly. “Because I’m sure I left it…”

He looks up from his phone and trails off, taking in the scene. Bellamy looks at him like a startled deer and Clarke fixes her gaze to the floor, avoiding all eye contact.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you guys to… whatever this is,” Miller says, waving his hand awkwardly.

Clarke’s eyes snap up and she fumbles for words, an edge of desperation in her tone.

“No, no, Miller, I’ll go look for it; I might have a spare one if it doesn’t turn up. You can teach Bellamy how to use the shower - you know I always forget which of the taps you have to run to make sure the water’s still hot.”

It’s a blatant lie, to anyone who knows Clarke. But Bellamy doesn’t, so she rolls with it. Miller nods at her conspiratorially and launches into action, leading Bellamy away. Soon Clarke hears the shower screech to life, accompanied by Miller’s voice calmly explaining the finer mechanics of their plumbing. Her shoulders relax and she flops onto the couch with a sigh of relief.

The orange demon chooses that moment to waltz back into the living room, jumping up onto the couch. Clarke tries ignoring it but it fights for her attention, stepping on her boobs in rage.

“Ow! Fuck,” Clarke exclaims, moving the beast onto her stomach. She looks around to make sure no one is watching before petting it.

“Your owner is an idiot,” Clarke sighs affectionately, scratching at it’s bitten, ragged ears. Just as Clarke was thinking it was tolerable, the cat agitates at the mention of Bellamy and digs its claws into her shirt. She promptly shoves it off her lap, swearing.

When Miller comes back out, she’s flopped onto her side, eyeing Bellamy’s drink. She’s not normally a whiskey girl, but with the day she’s having, she’ll drink anything if it’ll get rid of the weight in her chest and the tingling feeling Bellamy’s grasp left behind. Clarke scrubs her arm vigorously, willing away the memory of his skin under her fingers. Maybe _she_ needs a shower, to wash his touch off.

Clarke looks up at Miller, hovering over the end of the couch, and he looks back, his eyes curiously sympathetic.

“What?” she snaps, awaiting the rush of questions she doesn’t want to answer.

Miller just shakes his head.

“It’s none of my business,” he says at last.

The rest of Clarke’s anxiety fades, and she feels a rush of affection for her longtime friend. She flings herself up from the couch and wraps her arms around him tightly. He freezes for a second, then hugs her back, a warm, rare, Miller hug. After a few seconds, Clarke starts to feel better and she smiles into the crook of Miller’s neck, rocking up onto her tip-toes.

“So can I borrow your charger?” Miller asks finally, breaking Clarke out of her reverie.

“Shit, Miller, I didn’t even look for yours, did I? Of course; it’s on my dresser,” she replies sheepishly, reluctantly pulling away.

Miller half-smiles at her before turning and walking toward her room. Halfway there, he stops and turns back.

“If you wanna talk…” he offers awkwardly, scratching the back of his head.

“Thanks for the offer, Miller, but I think I’ll go to Raven.”

Miller sighs in relief, clearly thanking her for not putting him through the horror of heart-to-heart conversations. He nods and pushes into her room, the door closing heavily behind him.

Clarke settles back on the couch, pushing aside all thoughts of Bellamy Blake. He’s off-limits. He’s Octavia’s brother. He’s their new roommate. He’s just gotten out of a long-term relationship. The list of reasons why Bellamy is forbidden is endless.

But the memory of him still lingers on her skin and in her thoughts regardless. No matter what logic tells her, she can’t get rid of him. Not completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's three more chapters already written and coming soon! make sure to subscribe so you know when we post them!
> 
> if you enjoyed it there's a picset to reblog [_here_](http://clarkegriffvn.tumblr.com/post/129537670951/i-didnt-know-i-was-lonely-till-i-saw-your-face-a) and you can follow us on tumblr; @clarkegriffvn and @wullgorski respectively :)
> 
> finally, comments/kudos are really appreciated!! please please please comment if you liked it!


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your sweet comments! we really love hearing from you guys <3
> 
> here's part two, as promised

When the ninth day hits and Bellamy still hasn’t left the house, a meeting is called. He’s definitely in a better state than before Clarke talked to him - as in, he bathes regularly and cracks a smile at least once a day. Octavia drops by a couple times, and that seems to help pull Bellamy out of his shell. Watching him playfully argue with his younger sister makes Clarke feel all sickeningly warm and fuzzy inside.

Whilst the Blake siblings are otherwise occupied, Clarke, Raven and Miller gather in Raven’s room, and conspire quietly about what Raven’s now calling 'Operation: Get Bellamy Blake laid/a life/out of this damn apartment.'

“It’s a work in progress,” Raven shrugs when asked about the wordy name, seemingly unconcerned.

Clarke stretches out languidly on Raven’s bed, whilst Miller takes up residence leaning against the desk and Raven sits on the stool next to it. They've managed to squeeze themselves into the non-cluttered areas of the room, surrounded by shelves upon shelves of projects and tools. Clarke probably couldn’t name half of them, and she’s not going to try.

“So how should we do it?” Miller says. He isn’t wearing his customary beanie, Clarke notices idly. She wonders if the banishment of his beanie shrine to his closet had any effect on the wardrobe change.

Clarke huffs and rolls onto her side, facing him. 

“That’s what we’ve been asking ourselves for the past week and a half. At this rate, he’ll never leave.”

Raven tuts half-heartedly, the metal of her leg brace knocking against the wooden stool. She stretches it out, extending her foot in a way that reminds Clarke of a ballerina.

“Can’t we just pick him up and throw him out?” Raven offers. “Not like permanently or whatever, just for a couple hours.”

“Raven, he’s taller than all of us,” Clarke reminds her. “Throwing him out would be like fighting an angry, emotionally fragile bear.”

Miller snorts and crosses his arms, leaning his butt on the edge of Raven’s desk and pushing away some papers. Raven shoots him a glare and leans over to pile them neatly, pointedly laying them down on the opposite side of the desk from him.

“Okay, but we can work with that. Miller’s basically half-bear in the mornings anyways,” she remarks, eyebrows raised challengingly.

“What are you getting at?” Miller asks, affronted.

“Miller, don’t pretend you don’t know what we’re talking about. You literally ripped the fridge door off last month. I spent four hours repairing it!” Raven retorts.

“Yeah, yeah. I meant what’s your _point_ ,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, we need to get him back in the game, y’know? And Clarke and I have made the executive decision to not have pity sex with him, so that’s off the table. And the bed. And the--”

“Your point?” Miller repeats. Clarke looks over to see that he isn’t at all surprised by Raven’s mentions of Clarke and her discussing sex with Bellamy.

“Right, right, I was getting there. I say we convince him to go out with us tonight to the bar. Get some liquor in him, loosen him up, find him a rebound. He’s got a good face, should be easy.”

Clarke opens her mouth to object, but finds that she doesn’t have a reason. Miller’s nodding along like the ridiculous plan makes perfect, so she might as well roll with it.

“Guys, I don’t know,” she attempts. “I think Bellamy’s still too torn up about his break-up. It’d be like trying to make a kid ride a bike without training wheels first.”

“He’s a grown man,” Miller deadpans.

Clarke bites her lip, seeing as Raven gives her an incredulous look.

“I’m just saying,” she adds weakly.

“Well, I’m _just saying_ that he needs to get back on the horse,” Raven counters, leaning forward in her seat.

Clarke purses her lips, but has no response. Her mind itches uncomfortably, searching for a reason why she hates the idea of Bellamy with another woman.

“Alright, let’s go get Octavia in on this,” Miller says, taking the attention off of Clarke. “If we’re taking him out, we’re gonna need back up.”

Clarke shoots him a grateful half-smile, shifting up to a sitting position on Raven’s creaking bed.

“I’m on it!” Raven grins, heaving up off her stool and out the door.

Miller gives Clarke a look, the same one as the other day, and she frowns at him.

“Shut up, Miller,” she orders, following Raven.

“I didn’t say anything!” he protests, hands raised in surrender, but Clarke’s already left the room. Raven’s heavy door swings shut behind her, drowning out Miller’s complaints.

 

*****

 

As she and Raven file into the living room so that Raven can ambush Bellamy, Clarke slips past into the kitchen. She thumps down onto a stool at the island and rests her forehead on the counter, relishing the sensation of the cool wood against her overheated skin. What’s _wrong_ with her? She can’t stop dreading the night ahead, an uncomfortable shifting feeling twisting in her gut.

She lifts her head up to watch as Raven walks confidently up to Octavia and Bellamy on the couch, crashing down right in between them and throwing her arms around the necks of both Blakes. Octavia laughs and Bellamy looks stricken as he shifts aside to make room for her. Clarke smiles absent-mindedly, propping her chin up on her hand as she settles down to watch the show that will undoubtedly unfold.

“So you guys wanna hear about my latest genius idea?” Raven starts, and even if Clarke wasn’t looking, she’d be able to _sense_ the grin plastered across the brunette’s face.

Bellamy grimaces, but says nothing as his sister nods enthusiastically. Miller, entering the living room after them, notices Clarke sitting slumped in the kitchen and snorts, and she narrows her eyes in reply. He looks away and pulls up a chair, purposely sitting with his back to her. She rolls her eyes at the petty gesture and turns her attention back to Raven, who’s takes everyone’s silence as an invitation to go on.

“Bellamy, as a new member of the household, you need to be initiated. That’s why I say we take you out to Anya’s with us tonight!”

Octavia’s eyes light up in time with Bellamy’s tired sigh.

“Yeah Bell! C’mon, you’ll have a great time with us! Clarke and I get staff discount, too, so don’t bother with any excuses.”

Raven cackles delightedly, leaning in and nudging Bellamy’s shoulder with her own. “You can’t even cry schoolwork. Face it, Blake: there’s no way out of this one.”

Bellamy shoots Miller a desperate look.

“Sorry man,” Miller answers with a shrug. “I’m with the girls on this one.”

Bellamy groans defeatedly, sinking further back into the sofa as if the leather will swallow him up. It’s clear to Clarke that he shares her discomfort about the proposed plans, but he can’t think of an excuse either. Raven’s right, after all - since the schools are on summer vacation, Bellamy has nothing but time on his hands.

“I don’t thin-”

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Raven interrupts. “New roommates have to get ridiculously drunk with us; I don’t make the rules.”

Clarke huffs bitterly at Raven’s reasoning from behind the counter, watching as Bellamy struggles in vain to think of a reason not to go out.

“And besides,” Octavia chimes in. “You need fresh air.”

Bellamy’s shoulders sag, and he takes a deep breath.

“Alright. Fine. If it makes you guys happy, I’ll go,” he relents.

Miller and Raven high-five as Octavia stands, dragging her brother off the couch bodily.

“Clarke!” calls Raven. “Get over here and help us get this loser dressed.”

“Thanks but no thanks, Raven,” she answers, stretching her back. “I’m going to go get ready for work.”

“Ugh, Clarke,” Raven sighs, pulling a face. “Why do you _always_ work on nights we plan to get shitfaced? C’mon, you’re so much more fun when you’re drunk.”

“I’m fun anyway, thanks,” Clarke replies flatly, unamused. “But someone has to make sure you don’t break more laws than necessary.”

“Fine, fine,” Raven answers dismissively, because she can’t really argue with that one. She marches off in the direction of Bellamy’s room, where Octavia can be heard, bossily proclaiming that _‘that shirt makes you look less like a huge nerd. Wear it.’_

The pained groan that echoes from Bellamy’s room is audible even from her seat in the kitchen, and Clarke covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. It’s definitely going to be an interesting night.

 

*****

 

When they get there, Anya’s is already packed with the usual mismatched crowd. Thankfully, Clarke doesn’t have to push through the melee with the others in search of a table, although to be fair that isn’t normally an issue. The back booth in the left corner of the bar has been unofficially theirs ever since Clarke’s fellow bartender Jasper had attempted to woo Octavia with a flaming shot of his own invention, only for it to go horribly wrong. The resulting scorch mark covers a good half of the wall above the table, and is by now barely glanced at twice by the regulars.

When she ducks behind the bar, Clarke can still see the booth out of the corner of her eye. Bellamy is the last to sit, barely fitting in. He looks good - Octavia was actually right about that shirt. It’s nice to see him cleaned up and out of his pyjamas for once, a pleasant change from the sweatpants-wearing lump that’s occupied their couch for the past week and a half. He’s even shaved, she can see, as he runs a hand over his jaw in what Clarke _thinks_ is a nervous tic.

“Griffin!”

She turns around sharply at the sound of her boss’ voice, but when Clarke’s greeted by Anya’s feral grin she relaxes, smiling back.

“New addition?” Anya smirks, nodding towards the booth and multitasking flawlessly as she talks. She’s making three completely different drinks, not even looking. Clarke would be crazily impressed, but this is normal for Anya, and she’s learned that staring in awe just makes the bar-owner annoyed.

“Oh yeah. Octavia’s brother, actually,” Clarke answers, trying to be brief as she checks herself in at the cash.

Her boss nods shortly in reply. “I thought he looked familiar.”

Clarke looks back to the booth, watching Bellamy as Octavia gesticulates wildly next to him, pointing towards a pretty blonde across the room. Bellamy looks conflicted and catches Clarke’s eye, shooting her a panicked glance and mouthing _‘help me.’_ Clarke laughs and holds up the cloth she’s wiping down the counter with,  eyes answering _‘sorry, I’m on the job.’_ He sighs in defeat and Clarke looks down, smile lingering on her lips. A stare burns into her from Anya’s direction, and Clarke’s eyes snap up again.

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just don’t let him distract you tonight, it’s going to be busy,” Anya says calmly.

Clarke’s eyes bug out, and Anya laughs, handing out drinks. Clarke doesn’t have anything to say in her defense, so she just shakes her head and goes about her job.

Half an hour later, Raven’s got some drinks in Bellamy and he’s finally walking toward the pretty blonde from before with what could be either a smile or grimace on his face. Clarke watches curiously from behind the bar, disliking the way the other blonde eyes Bellamy’s approach hungrily. He clearly stutters over his introduction, but the other girl takes it in stride, giggling and twirling her straw in her drink. Bellamy smiles in relief and leans in closer, and the girl’s hot pink lips curl up in a sultry smirk.

Clarke rolls her eyes in disgust before she catches herself, spinning around abruptly and picking up a wayward glass, polishing it furiously. Still, when she hears Bellamy’s familiar laugh her curiosity gets the better of her, and she snaps her head back around, promising herself to just glance for a second. She nearly breaks the glass she’s holding when she sees the girl reach up, twisting a finger in Bellamy’s curls, complimenting him. Clarke smacks the glass down on the counter, making Bellamy glance her way. She grits her teeth and looks away quickly, focusing on serving customers. The she sees the blonde point at her curiously, and continues to watch out of the corner of her eye.

Bellamy shrugs in reply and points over to his booth, where Raven and Octavia are cheering Miller on as he reluctantly chugs a beer, probably the result of some lost bet. The blonde wrinkles her nose when Bellamy turns away, Clarke can _see_ her, but as soon as her friend turns around again she’s all coquettish smiles. Clarke glares in the direction of the blonde, willing her death stare to take effect. She’d probably look better with that tacky dress as a pile of cinders.

Bellamy gets distracted talking, paying less and less attention to the girl. She pouts at him but he doesn’t see it, looking down at his drink. Clarke smirks triumphantly, but then a customer is slurring her name and she has to turn away.

“What can I get for you?” she asks sweetly, even though the smell of alcohol on the guy’s breath is enough to make her stomach churn. It’s the worst part about being a bartender; she has to bat her eyes at every creepy drunk that strolls through the place just to ensure she rakes in the tips she depends on.

When she turns to make his order, she looks back up to watch Bellamy and the girl. Or, as she discovers, to watch the blonde flip her hair in his face and stalk away towards the next hot guy. Bellamy’s shoulders slump and he looks over to their booth, where Raven is cackling at his failure, although Octavia shoots him a supportive smile and gestures for him to make his way back over. Clarke smiles to herself, a weight dropping off her shoulders.

“Back to work,” Anya chastises from the other end of the bar, pointing at her with a vodka bottle.

The hours seem to pass faster after that, continuing much the same. Clarke’s roommates are loud and drunk and clearly having a great time. Octavia’s boyfriend Lincoln makes an appearance, ending her night early and driving her home, much to her disdain. Bellamy has yet to get any of his conversations far, always getting distracted, being weird, or acting so indifferent that the girl gets bored and gives up on him.

Eventually, even Raven seems to realize that Bellamy’s a lost cause, after he’s left in the dust by yet another girl. Clarke watches from behind the bar as she goes off to flirt with a conquest of her own, as she would put it, probably off of some dare from Miller. The guy Raven picks as her prey is a tall blond with a scruffy moustache, leaning against the far wall. Clarke snorts as Raven bluntly hits on him, and the guy’s face twists in amusement. Five minutes from now they could either be making out against the wall or in the middle of a fistfight, and Clarke isn’t about to bet on which.

Bellamy makes his way over to the bar quietly, and Clarke doesn’t even notice that he’s there until he speaks.

“Am I really as awful as everyone keeps saying? Miller keeps looking at me like he doesn’t know how to tell me that my whole family’s been killed,” Bellamy says, causing Clarke to jump and face him.

“You scared me,” she scolds. Bellamy just smiles in response, looking down to toy with the straw dispenser in front of him.

“I don’t know,” Clarke continues, batting his hand away. “You looked like you were doing okay sometimes, but others? Not so much. And if you keep touching those straws you’ll have to take them all.”

Bellamy pulls a childish face, but his hands drop all the same.

“I need something to drink,” he declares, sliding onto a stool and leaning forward onto the counter.

Clarke raises an eyebrow at him and gestures to the wall of alcohol behind her.

“Could you be any more vague?”

“I try,” Bellamy says with a grin, and Clarke is torn between slapping him and kissing him. “Here, just make me whatever you drink.”

Clarke squints at his non-answer but goes ahead anyways, pulling a glass out from under the bar.

“It wasn’t always _that_ bad. That first girl seemed pretty into you, what happened?”

Bellamy laughs self-consciously, running a hand through his hair.

“Talking about my ex probably screwed me over,” he admits.

“Ouch, yeah, that would do it.” Clarke winces sympathetically, reaching round to grab the bottle of absinthe that she needs. “If it makes you feel any better, I fucked up at least half of the dates I went on after I got dumped.”

“At least you _got_ dates,” Bellamy points out, looking vaguely miserable.

Clarke’s heart strings pull a little, and she starts to understand why Miller’s been shooting Bellamy those pitying looks when he thinks no one’s looking. Of course that doesn’t even begin to explain Clarke’s own confusing feelings for Bellamy. She quickly stuffs that train of thought in the back of her mind.

“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It’s been what, a month?”

Bellamy shrugs, slightly shamefaced.

“We’re lucky, you know,” Clarke adds, causing Bellamy to shoot her a confused look.

“Having friends that’ll drag us out when things turn to shit,” she explains. “They really care. Octavia hasn’t been this excited about a night out since her first date with Lincoln.”

That manages to coax a smile out of him, and Clarke grins in return.

“So it’s no big deal if you screw things up, honestly. As long as you’re out of the house.”

“Thanks,” Bellamy says quietly, and it sounds so sincere that Clarke blunders on.

“I mean, you’re going to get back out there no matter what. You’re smart and hot; girls love that.”

A slow, cocky grin spreads across Bellamy’s face, and Clarke realizes her mistake.

“You think I’m hot?”

She opens her mouth to backtrack, an uncomfortable tingling feeling crawling up her neck. She snaps her mouth shut and grits her teeth, realizing that it’s no use denying it.

“Yeah, sure,” she answers, trying to play it off casually. “The whole ‘hot teacher’ thing? It works for, uh, works for some people.”

“Works for _you_ , you mean,” Bellamy smirks, and Clarke straightens up in self-defense.

“I’m not even dignifying that with a response,” she says haughtily, even though the redness in her cheeks has to have given her away.

Bellamy’s eyes burn into her back as she turns away to finish his drink, and the skin between her shoulder blades prickles like his gaze has a physical weight.

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” he sing-songs smugly, and Clarke bites back a stupidly fond grin, thankful that she’s facing the opposite wall.

“Drink up, Blake,” she says instead of answering, turning back to slide the glass across the counter and purposefully avoiding eye contact.

Bellamy eyes the rocks glass suspiciously, staring at the contents like he expects the liquid to leap out and burn him. Clarke watches as he picks the glass up, taking a hesitant sip. His eyebrows raise in pleasant surprise a moment later, and she smiles.

“It’s not that bad,” he concludes, turning the glass in his hand. “What is it?”

“Sazerac. It’s a little fancy, but seeing as I got drunk on champagne before I ever even tasted beer, I’m used to it.”

“Champagne?” Bellamy repeats, sensing a story behind her words.

Clarke laughs at his incredulous tone and looks away, polishing the same glass for the second time.

“I grew up…” she trails off, thinking of the best way to phrase it. “My parents were loaded, basically. I used to steal bottles from parties with my best friend, Wells, and we’d sneak up onto my roof together. I’d be so hungover the next morning that my mom would think I’d caught the flu; she never suspected a thing.”

“Never knew you had a rebellious streak, Griffin,” Bellamy teases, picking the lemon rind out of his drink and plopping it on the counter.

Clarke gives him her best ‘I am _not_ amused’ face as she throws the lemon peel away, wiping up the wayward watermarks left behind on the counter.

“Yeah, well, strict parents raise cunning kids,” she replies, the conversation trailing off slightly. After a moment of silence she adds, “Octavia doesn’t talk about your parents much.”

Bellamy’s hand stops abruptly, his glass raised halfway to his mouth. He lowers it slowly, setting his drink aside. Clarke watches him, her fingers toying with the edge of her shirt.

He clears his throat.

“Isn’t much to say, really. I never knew my dad; Octavia’s left before she was born. Our mom did her best raising us, but she was always sick. Caught colds easily, that kind of thing. It was always just small stuff, so we never expected it when she…”

Bellamy breaks off, staring down at his hands.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Clarke interjects.

Bellamy shakes his head, pressing on and swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat with a shot of his drink. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully flat, but hollow, all emotion pushed aside.

“I should. O tries to sometimes, says I bottle things up, but then we just end up getting sad-drunk together and throwing a pity party.”

Clarke nods along, and her fingernails dig into the edge of the shining mahogany counter. She beats back the urge to reach out and take his hands in hers, but the need to comfort him persists.

“I’m a good listener,” is what she settles on saying, voice soft. “Comes with the territory.”

Bellamy smiles half-heartedly, finally looking her in the eye. Her breath catches under his warm and open gaze, brown eyes shining as the light casts the fanning shadows of his eyelashes onto his skin. Something in Clarke aches to reach out and touch him, but again, she doesn’t act. Anya’s already eyeing her suspiciously from the other side of the bar, and Clarke doesn’t want to spook Bellamy with her interference.  

“It came out of nowhere. She died six weeks after the diagnosis; cancer. She called me one morning talking about how beautiful it was outside, and she was fine. But that night she started having problems, and the doctors, they couldn’t…”

_Fuck it_ , Clarke thinks, reaching out to grab Bellamy’s hand in two of her own, squeezing tightly. He lets out a deep breath and Clarke can see his shoulders relax.

“I lost my dad in a car accident when I was in med school,” she starts. “Everything I thought I was so sure of, it fell apart. That’s why I dropped out. My mom hated that I gave up on her dream, but we only had each other left, so we never talked about it. It’s not the healthiest, but we get by. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I lost her too.”

She doesn't want to elaborate, especially with the mood becoming depressing so fast, so she stays quiet, eyes lowered.

“Thank you,” Bellamy says after a beat.

Clarke nods and holds onto his hand a moment longer before drawing away. Her stomach flips, and she racks her mind for anything to change the topic. Luckily she doesn’t have to, because Bellamy speaks up first, breaking the tension.

“Refill?” he asks, drink raised toward her.

Clarke laughs and takes it from him, their fingers brushing against each other.

“Coming right up.”

*****

 

When Clarke finally has the chance to check in with Bellamy again, about an hour later, she’s beyond thankful she took a break when she did. Bellamy’s half-turned away from the bar, his attention caught by frenzied shouting echoing from the back of the room - where their booth is. Raven’s picked a fight with Jasper, at the bar early to start his shift.

Nothing about this situation is new to Clarke, from the shrieking to the transfixed customers, although normally they aren’t her roommates - she and Miller are too well-versed in what happens to Raven after too many drinks to be fazed any more.

Still, it’s obviously news to Bellamy, and she leans forward over the bar, putting her weight on one elbow and tapping him on the shoulder.

“Raven gets a little… _aggressive_ when she’s been drinking,” Clarke explains, once Bellamy turns around to face her. “And usually it takes very little to set her off. Some people just have a knack for it; our other bartender, Jasper, is one of them.”

Bellamy bobs his head understandingly, looking to the side. His cheeks are flushed from the heat and his drinking, and Clarke swallows, her brain briefly short-circuiting.

“Some people just clash,” he rambles like a drunken philosopher. “Just like others fit together, like, like something just _knows_ that they’re meant to. Sometimes, you can look at someone, just see their face, and know that either you’ll love ‘em or hate ‘em. Jasper and Raven… I can see how that’s not a good mix.”

Clarke looks at him strangely, her breath shallow and slow. Apparently drunk Bellamy has no filter, and his slightly slurred words and distant look strike a chord in Clarke. She shakes her head to get rid of the feeling, but keeps getting stuck on how much she _likes_ Bellamy without a filter. Fuck, she’s in so deep.

“Do you--” her voice catches on the first attempt at a subject change, so she tries again. “Do you know him?”

“Oh yeah, I know him,” Bellamy nods. “He’s best friends with the physics teacher at my school, Monty Green. Monty always ends up bringing him to the staff Christmas party-- he’s a hit with the drama department. And I’m pretty he’s the one that spikes the punch, although I can’t say I’m complaining.”

Bellamy lifts his glass and takes the 6th (or is it 7th?) slug of his drink in as many minutes. Clarke swoops in, pinching it out of his hand and setting it aside.

“Alright, enough of that. C’mon, _someone_ sensible needs to intervene before Anya kicks them both out. It’s happened before and it’ll happen again, but the least we can do is stop someone from losing an eye.”

Clarke grabs her bag from under the counter before slipping out from behind the bar. She tugs hard on Bellamy’s shirtsleeve to make him follow her, which he does with only slightly unsteady steps. The shouting gets louder as they near and Bellamy winces, covering his ears.

“How dare you!?” accuses Raven, finger poking hard into Jasper’s chest. “You come into _my_ bar, insult _my_ superior taste in children’s movie franchises--”

“Your bar? _Your bar?_ I work here!” Jasper cries indignantly, his voice rising dramatically in volume and pitch.

“Yeah, well maybe all this alcohol has gone to your head, _dickface_ , because if you think that Disney is better than Pixar--”

Clarke’s concerned expression drops the second she hears that. Bellamy turns to her quizzically, eyes saying _‘they’re really arguing about this, of all things?’_

“Better than?” Jasper interrupts, eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “No, just _no_. Frozen was a fucking MASTERPIECE, Reyes! Disney knocks Pixar out of the _park_. Superior quality, better storylines, fucking stunning animati-”

“Don’t you dare talk to me about animation when Disney claims women are too hard to animate! I don't know why you're so far up Walt's ass, Jasper, but you can take Disney's sexist excuses and shove them up there with you!"

“Way to deflect my point! Please continue insulting me because you don’t have any actual counterarguments,” Jasper mocks.

“You’re right, I don’t need to make a fool of you. You do that just fine on your own with your idiot opinions! And as for counterarguments, how’s the fact tha-”

Clarke stops listening to remove her apron and take down her ponytail, shaking out her hair. She stuffs the apron in her bag, forcing it shut, before carefully winding the hair tie around her wrist.

“They can go on for hours,” she explains, raising her voice to drown out the commotion. She turns her head to make sure Bellamy’s still following, only to catch him drag his eyes up her body, mouth open slightly.

Clarke’s mind quickly dismisses the gaze with the simple excuse of his obvious drunkenness, but not before her cheeks heat up at the sight. The alternative option is too much for her flustered, overheated brain to deal with right now, and the mechanics of Bellamy Blake’s mind aren’t something she’ll allow herself to obsess over without copious amounts of alcohol. Why does she always have to work on bar night? Her schedule is such a bitch.

So instead of throwing herself into his arms, (or at least giving him a sultry wink), Clarke forces herself to give Bellamy a disapproving look. He grins sheepishly back at her, playing innocent and catching up so he’s standing beside her again.

“She's got you beat, Goggles! Throw in the towel while you still can!” yells a new voice, drawing Clarke’s attention. For the first time she notices the tall blond from earlier standing behind Raven, cheering her on with his beer raised.

Miller laughs loudly, audible even over the din, and hoists his beer into the air, shouting encouragement. Alcohol sloshes over the rim of his glass, splattering to the floor, and Clarke winces, thankful that her shift has ended and she doesn’t have to clean up Miller’s mess. She knows firsthand what kind of damage he can do when drunk; put enough alcohol in him and he becomes something akin to an obnoxious frat boy.

“I’m outnumbered! I demand backup!” Jasper announces, and Clarke braces herself as he turns to her.

“No,” she states firmly, backing away. “There’s no way I’m encouraging this. In fact, I came over here because it’s time for us to go.”

Everyone except Jasper starts complaining in unison, a drunken clash of _‘but Clarke!’_ and _‘who’s that?’_ and _‘WE CAN’T LEAVE NOW, I’M ABOUT TO TAKE THIS MOTHERFUCKER TO THE GRAVE’._

Even Bellamy protests, grabbing Clarke’s arm at the elbow and turning her around to face him.

“We can’t go, Clarke,” he says, eyes wide and painfully serious. “When in Rome, you must do as the Romans do.”

Clarke has to choke back a laugh at the look on his face, all earnestness.

“Which means… start a bar fight?”

Bellamy opens his mouth to reply, but Raven’s triumphant whoop distracts Clarke, and she turns her attention back to the scene in front of her.

“Listen up, Jordan,” Raven spits, once again getting right up into Jasper’s space. “I’m only going to say this once. Pixar has been outdoing Disney for YEARS. Ever since Wall-e—”

“Really, Raven? Why does everything have to come back to the robots with you?”

“Wall-e is not just robots! It’s CUTE SPACE ROBOTS IN LOVE. A genius post-apocalyptic plot, elaborately detailed scenery, and one of the best writing teams in animation history, you fucknugget. Wall-e is the height of this industry’s creativity, ingenuity, and artistic invention, and Pixar is the only corporation to prove that they can do amazing shit like that! Disney hasn’t been able to reach those standards in years! C’mon, fight me on this! I dare you!” Raven yells, now being restrained by the blond and Miller, a boy grabbing on to each arm.

Jasper shrinks back, ducking behind the bar counter, and Clarke sighs in despair. Raven’s so riled up now that getting her back to the apartment will be an impossible feat, especially considering how drunk both Miller and Bellamy are as well. Clarke turns to the only other vaguely sober-looking person around: the blond on Raven’s arm. She catches his eye and gives him her sternest _‘help me or I swear to God...’_ look.

“You. Get Raven to my car and I promise that when I tell her about this disaster tomorrow, you’ll come out favourably. Unless she actually remembers anything, although I doubt it.”

The blond doesn’t hesitate. “You have a deal. I’m Wick, by the way.”

She nods, filing the name away. “Clarke. You get Raven and I’ll get Miller. Bellamy, you keep up.”

Clarke turns around to make sure Bellamy heard, and swears, realizing that he’s halfway across the room, talking to someone. When he shifts slightly, Clarke’s heart sinks. It’s the blonde girl from before, practically draping herself over Bellamy. She whispers something into his ear as Clarke approaches, and it makes Bellamy laugh loudly, his shoulders shaking.

Clarke’s eyebrows draw together, surprised by the bottomless anger she feels in her gut just from watching them. The girl backs off a little once she sees Clarke come to a halt beside them, flipping her hair judgmentally. Bellamy swings his head to look at her, seeming upset by the intrusion.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Clarke says through gritted teeth, not meaning a word. “But we have to go.”

Bellamy’s face falls, and Clarke is surprised to find herself comparing this grown man’s expression to that of a pleading puppy. The blonde girl frowns, crossing her arms, but Clarke pointedly ignores her, standing in between them now.

“Clarke,” Bellamy whines. “I want to stay; Melissa’s nice.”

“Alyssa,” the girl corrects with a smile, not thrown off even the slightest by the mistake. Her fingers are already snaking up Bellamy’s arm, and it makes Clarke want to gag.

“Hate to say this,” Clarke snaps irritably. “But I really couldn’t give a shit. He’s drunk, you’re pathetic, and we’re leaving. _Now_.”

Alyssa stares at Clarke with wide eyes while the words sink in, jaw dropped. Then it snaps shut and her eyes narrow, and she’s glaring like she thinks Clarke’s the biggest bitch on the planet, which, well, might be true. Just a bit. But Clarke won’t admit it and there’s no going back now, so she grabs Bellamy by the arm and hauls him off his stool. He stumbles behind her obediently, barely keeping up as she stomps her way to the door.

“You’re angry,” Bellamy states dumbly as she drags him into the parking lot.

“No,” Clarke snaps irritably, weaving through cars on tired feet.

Bellamy is having a harder time, seeing as the alcohol has finally hit his sense of balance. Clarke feels yet another tug on her grip on his arm, and she looks back at him leaning against a grey minivan.

“Alright Bell,” she says impatiently, slipping herself under one of his arms to support him. “Here, come on.”

They move faster that way, soon catching up to Wick and his own tipsy charges.

Raven is still yelling incoherently, while Wick is steadying Miller and trying to get him to tell him which car is theirs.

“Hey!” Clarke calls out.

Wick looks up with a relieved expression.

“Oh fuck, thank God you’re here. Where--?”

Clarke lifts up her keys and unlocks her beat up old Honda, flashing the lights. Wick spins Miller around and points him to the car, then swivels, looking for Raven. She’s still yelling, and is currently waving one of her shoes in the air threateningly, halfway across the parking lot. Wick surges towards her to try and calm her, but gets smacked in the face with a flying sandal; drunk Raven still has good aim. Clarke winces at his feeble attempts and pulls away from Bellamy, knowing that there’s only one way this is going to go down.

“I’ve got her. You take Bellamy,” Clarke orders Wick, abandoning a teetering Bellamy into the blond’s hands. As the mom friend, experienced designated driver, and professional Raven-wrangler, she’s got this.

“I have unfinished business!” Raven declares, hopping on her unbraced leg to try and rip off her other shoe. She tips and catches herself on the hood of a red car before Clarke can get close, flinging the sandal off her foot so it goes skidding across the pavement.

“Raven, just calm down!” Clarke says, exasperated. She stops a couple feet away for safety, hands held out just in case.

“That bastard isn’t getting away without a fight! He wants one and he’s going to fucking get it!” Raven raves, trying to balance herself enough to walk back to the bar.

“Raven, if you don’t stop that and get in the car right fucking now, I’m literally going to murder you,” Clarke snaps.

“I’m going back in, don’t try and stop me, I’m--”

Clarke cuts her off by grabbing her arm, towing her towards their car. Raven has different plans however, and digs her heels in, pulling back with all her might.

“What the hell, Raven!? I’m never letting you drink again. If you go back in there and kill Jasper, we’re going to get banned!"

Raven’s tugging lessens as Clarke speaks, and it gives her the idea to barrel on, hoping to convince her stubborn, drunk friend.

“You can get back at him in so many better ways,” she continues. “And if you go home and think on it, you can come up with the best way to destroy him. And then we’ll go to Anya’s and celebrate, and you won’t be in jail for murder.”

Clarke sighs in relief as Raven’s eyes light up and she stops trying to escape.

“Thank you,” she mutters under her breath. Raven goes lax against her, sagging into Clarke and resting her head on the shorter girl’s shoulder, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

This is classic Drunk Raven, she gets freakishly angry about the most mundane topics and then, at the most unfortunate time possible, all the fight will go out of her. This isn’t the first time Clarke’s had to haul her best friend’s ass from the bar to the car, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Thankfully, Raven submits to Clarke’s aggressive towing without complaint, and she manages to stuff her in the car next to a half-asleep Miller without too much trouble.

She ducks out from the backseat and comes face to face with Wick, still trying to wrestle a stubborn Bellamy into the Honda.

“You don’t _understand_ , man,” Bellamy’s saying, gesticulating wildly. Wick seems content to nod along without really listening, and Clarke hides a smile, watching as the blond attempts to steer Bellamy into the Honda for the third time since she’s been watching.

“...Aphrodite’s so much more than what people make her out to be, _The Argonautica_ really tells such an interesting--”

“Okay, big guy,” Wick interrupts smoothly, clearly sick of Bellamy’s mythology rant. Clapping a hand down on Bellamy’s shoulder, Wick opens the car door with one hand and shoves him inside with the other, slamming it shut triumphantly.

“Good job,” Clarke grins, retrieving her car keys from her pocket. Wick shrugs like it’s no big deal, so she straightens up to look him in the eye.

“Seriously, I wouldn’t have been able to get them all here in one piece without you. It means a lot.”

“Well,” Wick rationalizes. “I got Raven’s number earlier - before the whole robot drama - so it’s not like the night was a complete bust.”

Clarke nods with a smile, circling round the car to swing the driver’s side door open. She gets in gingerly, careful to avoid wayward limbs. Rolling the window down as she begins to reverse,  she leans out the window to call a goodbye to Wick before he disappears from her rear view mirror.

“Don’t forget, I’ll put in a good word for you!”

Wick just grins in reply, raising a hand to wave as Clarke’s headlights sweep over his body, casting a dark shadow on the sidewalk behind him.

As her car turns out of the parking lot, Clarke rolls the window back up and turns the radio on, blasting whatever's in the top forty - she thinks she hears the new Hozier song that’s been everywhere, something about stealing cars and playing detectives - and begins the familiar drive back to the apartment.

As they stop at a red light, a line appears between Clarke’s eyebrows. There’s a strange contentedness in her, despite it all. She tries to pinpoint it inside of her, but finds she can’t, as it flutters skittishly through her chest. Then she looks around at Bellamy and Raven and Miller, and it clicks. Clarke’s in the company of three of her impossibly drunk, impossibly amazing best friends. And though she may feel a little more than friendly about one of them, things could be worse.

In that moment, with the city stretched out before her, she feels good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awwww a nice end to a vaguely-angsty night. Operation: Get Bellamy Blake laid/a life/out of this damn apartment has achieved two of its three goals! now let's see about that first one....
> 
> anyways we're [_clarkegriffvn_](http://clarkegriffvn.tumblr.com) and [_wullgorski_](http://wullgorski.tumblr.com) on tumblr, so come scream about bellarke with us!
> 
> there's also a picset for this fic you can reblog [_here_](http://clarkegriffvn.tumblr.com/post/129537670951/i-didnt-know-i-was-lonely-till-i-saw-your-face-a)
> 
> please kudos and comment if you enjoyed! you can also bookmark to be notified when we post the next chapter. part three is on its way!


	3. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! Thank you all for being so patient, hope you enjoy! This might be a little overly fluffy/filler-like, but we promise the next (and final) installment is super eventful <3

The next morning is a blur of copious amounts of breakfast food to soak up the alcohol, mutterings of "did I really--?" to which Clarke mostly answers yes, and conversations consisting entirely of different-pitched groans, which Clarke is both confused and impressed by.

Raven is up early. She’s crusty and likely to snap someone's head off, but still alive. A bleary-eyed Bellamy surfaces soon after, quiet and slow to respond, but better off than most. Clarke, though she would never admit it, takes extra care to get some water in him. It takes three people and a variety of colorful threats to drag Miller out of bed; a real team effort, especially considering he's nursing a raging headache.

“Fuck you all,” he announces once he’s capable of speech, flopped on the couch. “I’m going to strangle you in your sleep, and I’m going to pay Murphy in Doritos to dispose of your bodies.”

Eventually Clarke’s three hungover lumps trickle from the living room (watching Price is Right reruns because no one can bother to change the channel) into the kitchen. They watch curiously as she paces around the kitchen, checking pans and burners and tossing things in and out of the fridge.

“ _You’re_ making food?” Bellamy asks, skeptical.  

 “I just felt like it,” she answers, pulling a defensive face.

“Let her cook, it smells fucking amazing,” Miller orders.

Clarke tosses a grin over her shoulder, which soon melts into a look of sympathy. Miller looks more than pitiful, flopped on the island counter with his sweater sleeves pulled over his hands and arms wrapped around his head.

“Awwwww,” she croons, abandoning the pan to give him a hug from behind.

“I hate you,” he answers, but doesn’t move. Clarke takes it as a good sign.

She’s able to get a few laughs out of everyone with her retelling of the night, avoiding extreme detail on the more regrettable moments. Despite her best efforts, Raven practically explodes at the mention of her argument with Jasper.

“That fucker!” she spits, bits of toast flying out of her mouth. “Could you believe how he--”

“ENOUGH,” roars Miller, head in his hands. He then proceeds to flop his face back onto the counter, plate of food sitting untouched beside him.

Bellamy and Clarke share a wide-eyed look, but at least Raven has quieted down. She’s resumed piling breakfast food into her mouth, making loud, appreciative noises as she goes. Despite being horrified by her roommate’s table manners, Clarke’s ridiculously proud that her hungover friends seem to be enjoying her food. God knows it took her an embarrassingly long time to prepare it, especially since she had to throw the first couple tries away.

As Raven continues her impersonation of a vacuum, Clarke finally finishes carefully piling her cooking onto a plate for Bellamy.

“Thank you,” he murmurs groggily, voice low and tired.

Clarke bites down on her lip and nods back, watching anxiously as he picks up his fork. She settles her hand on the island, hip leaned against the side and fingers tapping nervously on the surface. Bellamy takes his first bite, then another, a small smile spreading across his face.

“It’s good,” he says sincerely, noticing her watching.

Clarke lights up with a grin and looks down at her feet. She catches Raven raising her eyebrows suspiciously out of the corner of her eye, but elects to ignore it. Raven’s too hungover and hungry to bother pressing the matter anyways, and quickly returns to her nearly-empty plate.

“Really?” she asks him, wondering if he’s just being nice.

“Really. You should get yourself some, I can do the cleaning up,” he says, looking at her with those thrice-damned brown eyes, and Clarke suddenly feels the need to scream. 

_Stop that_ , she thinks at him,  _stop being so nice and caring! If I can’t have you, at least let me hate you_. But Bellamy doesn’t hear and continues to look at her, waiting for her to accept his offer. Clarke pauses a moment longer, biting the inside of her mouth, then melts.

“Okay,” she sighs with a nod. “Thank you.”

“Alcohol is the devil,” Bellamy announces, raising his water up off the counter.

Miller tips his orange juice and Raven toasts with the crusts of her decimated toast, grinning. Clarke just laughs and grabs a plate, taking her place next to Bellamy. They share a smile, and Clarke feels something in her relax.

The rest of breakfast passes in a wave of quiet exhaustion.

 

*****

Later, Clarke walks back into the kitchen to get a glass of water for Raven, who has become one with the couch. Even Cleocatra has elected to say the hell away from her this morning, likely because if there was any day that she’d make good on her threat to throw the damned thing out the window, it would be today. Miller has woken up enough to escape to the gym, though how he exercises with a hangover Clarke will never know.

She winces as she surveys once more the damage she’s done to their kitchen. Half-used dishes lay piled precariously, food splatters and open containers adorn the countertop. The garbage can isn’t even fully closed, unable to because of the mass amount of discarded cooking piled within, and out of the corner of her eye Clarke can see Bellamy’s vain efforts to scrub grease marks off the pots and pans.

“Here,” she says, shuffling closer and elbowing him out the way. “You have to take that soap, it helps get the grease off.”

Bellamy picks up the blue bottle she pointed to and looks at her questioningly.

“This one?”

Clarke rolls her eyes fondly, reaching forward to grab the bottle out of Bellamy’s grasp just as he extends his arm towards her. His hand catches hers as Clarke fumbles with the slippery plastic, and she shivers fleetingly at the feeling of Bellamy’s warm hands against her own, still dripping soapy bubbles.

“Yeah, um. You just…” she says, ever so eloquently, pouring soap into the sink.

She glances up as she does it, and immediately regrets it. Bellamy is yawning, eyes fluttering shut and t-shirt pulled tight across his chest as he curves his back. His arm is raised, scratching his nose with the dry back of his wrist. His bicep flexes with the motion and Clarke watches every movement, entranced. Then he stills, eyes flicking to the sink in front of her. His eyes squint in confusion and she blinks slowly back to reality, moment gone.

“Do we really need that much?”

“What?” Clarke yelps, looking down to the ever-growing pile of liquid soap. “Oh! Shit, no--”

She sets the bottle aside quickly, eyes widening. Bellamy reaches around her to flick the tap on in an attempt to wash it away, but the water only seems to encourage the bubbles. In a panic, Clarke does the first thing she can think of, and sticks both hands right into the bubbly mountain, as if to force them down the drain. The bubbles just poof up around her, however, some becoming airborne before floating back down.

She looks to Bellamy for help, and is confused by the expression of amusement on his face. Clarke wrinkles her nose and lifts her hands out of the mess, sporting a fashionable pair of bubble gloves almost up to her elbows. Bellamy laughs then, the sound forcing a smile onto Clarke’s face. She cracks up a second later, then tries to shake off the bubbles. That just sends them everywhere, filling the air above the sink, dancing orange in the morning sun of the sink window.

_This isn’t so bad,_ Clarke thinks. _I could keep doing this. But then her stomach sinks. But how long can I keep it up?_

Clarke turns to Bellamy again and he smiles back this time. Her lips twitch, then she shifts her eyes down slightly as she forces her heart not to skip a beat. She looks back up a second later to return his smile in full.

Soon they’re making rings with their hands and collecting the soapy water between their fingers, competing to blow the biggest bubble. Tiny bubbles are still flying around their heads, airlifted by all the commotion. One nears Bellamy's face, so Clarke reaches out and pops it. Bellamy does the same with one near his hands, and then Clarke spots one in front of his nose so she lunges forward and--

Misjudges the distance, hitting him directly on the nose. Bellamy looks so scandalized by it that Clarke finds herself laughing at him, great big hiccups that burst out of her throat. Bellamy frowns at her but it just makes the giggles come harder, because oh my god, there’s a smudge of soap bubbles on his face and this airy feeling in her chest she can’t fight down. Bellamy’s glower quickly morphs into a devious grin as he scoops up a handful of froth, a no-good look in his eye. Clarke screeches a laugh and scrambles to run away, her socks sliding on the tile floor.

He separates his hands and chases her around the island, and Clarke grabs at the smooth counter top as she skids around, hand closing down on a discarded dish towel. She throws it giddily in his direction, but he ducks and quickly catches up to her. Clarke turns to face him as they both slow down, her hands raised and chest heaving. He quirks an eyebrow and takes another small step towards her. Clarke looks to her left for an escape and he jumps, soapy hands attacking. She grabs them in hers, twisting their fingers together and grinning triumphantly. Bellamy laughs and suddenly doubles his energy, wrestling Clarke’s hands together.

“No!” she shrieks, still giggling even as he grabs both her hands in one of his, restraining her effortlessly with his unfairly huge arms.

Her laugh dies in her throat. Bellamy's suddenly so much closer as he lets go of her to wipe soap down the side of her face, calloused fingertips dragging against the delicate skin of her cheek, a victorious smirk plastered across his face.

“You’re awful!” Clarke accuses shakily, forcing a frown to mask the frantic pounding of her heart in her chest.

“You started it,” Bellamy says with a cocky shrug, clearly completely oblivious to the effect his proximity has on her.

_And why, exactly, would he be aware?_  she thinks, looking away to wipe the soap off.  _It’s not like you broadcast your completely inappropriate crush on your roommate._

Clarke glances back up at Bellamy accusingly, but her expression falters as soon as she sees him. He’s watching her with a changed expression, eyes dark and intense as they meet hers.

Clarke swallows heavily, and suddenly she can’t tear her eyes away. She’s never been more aware of the fact that her hair is doing its best bird’s nest impression and that there’s definitely a grease stain on her t-shirt. Her hand flutters up to her stomach subconsciously, as if to settle its backflips and somersaults.

Bellamy opens his mouth to say something, then bites down on his lip instead, as if barely holding back the words. Clarke’s eyes drop and she moves to step away, but Bellamy reaches out and grabs her arm, stopping her.

“Bellamy?” Clarke says, eyes searching his face.

_What is he thinking?_  she asks herself, the thought playing on repeat as the seconds stretch long and thin.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Clarke nearly jumps out of her skin at Octavia’s announcement. Her head turns to the front door, where Octavia is peeking her head around the corner. Bellamy immediately drops her arm, turning away. Raven has sat up on the couch and though Clarke can’t see the hungover girl’s face, she assumes it’s fixed with a glare that would make any sane human shit their pants.

Clarke glances back to where Bellamy was, but finds him standing at the sink instead, head ducked as he furiously scrubs some plates. Clarke feels her stomach’s impromptu gymnastics settle down and she turns back to Octavia.

“Rough night, huh?” she teases, sidling up to Raven.

Raven whips a pillow at her, which Octavia ducks.

“What the fuck!?” yelps a startled Miller, as he follows Octavia through the door and is the unwilling recipient of a flying pillow to the face. He tosses his gym bag down and turns to glare accusingly at the two brunettes, hands held out in a ‘really, guys?’ gesture.

“It wasn’t me!” Octavia protests, laughing as she points to Raven. “Blame her, I’m innocent!”

“Oh, I know,” Miller answers even more bitterly than usual, if that’s even possible.

When Octavia abruptly goes quiet, guilt spread across her features, Clarke definitely knows something’s up. Raven seems to have picked up on it as well, because as Clarke walks into the living room, she can see that her roommate is staring at Octavia through narrowed eyes..

“You’re making your ‘I did a stupid thing’ face,” Raven accuses immediately, arms now crossed.

“That’s because she did,” answers Miller, causing Octavia to glare at him. “Go on, either you tell them or I will.”

Octavia huffs and looks away from Miller, twisting her mouth.

“So you know how Bellamy has no social life? Well I  _may_  have invited some people over; it can just be a small thing there doesn’t have to be a fuss-”

“Octavia,  _breathe_ ,” Clark interjects, amused despite herself.

Octavia’s eyes flicker to Raven, whose expression has gone blank in that terrifying, Raven way. Octavia takes a breath and repeats.

“They’re coming next Friday at 7,” she says more slowly. “I tried to ask you guys last night!”

“Oh yeah, that’s great, get us drunk and  _then_  ask us important questions!” Miller cuts in.

Clarke holds up her hands peacefully, sitting down next to Raven.

“Guys, she meant well.”

“She always means well,” Raven seethes, eyes squinted against the morning sun filtering into the living room.

Octavia puffs up in her defense, and Clarke and Miller’s eyes widen immediately. The last and only time Raven and Octavia really, truly fought, it took months of screaming matches, sabotage, and near-fistfights to come to a resolution.

“On second thought, the party isn’t such a bad idea,” Miller backtracks, trying to shut them down.

Octavia looks to Miller in surprise, then smiles gratefully a second later.

“Yeah,” Clarke piles on, “we have a whole week to prepare, and all we need is beer for True American.”

Raven straightens at the mention of her and everyone’s favorite drinking game.

“You think Bellamy’s nerd friends can keep up with TA?” she asks, a new gleam in her eye.

Clarke grins and Octavia manages a relieved laugh.

“Don’t underestimate them,” Octavia answers. “You know Jasper’s friend Monty who comes by the bar? I’ve seen that twig of a physics teacher outdrink the entire phys ed department.”

“We’ll see about that,” Miller says challengingly, crossing his arms.

Clarke smiles and looks off to the side of the room, noticing Bellamy standing at the edge of the kitchen doorway. She opens her mouth to invite him pitch in about the drinking habits of his friends, but he turns his back before she can. Clarke blinks as her friends laugh, but she’s lost interest suddenly. Her thoughts drift back to the kitchen and she sinks back into the couch. His laugh, his hands, the curve of his collarbone, they all flicker through her mind like a song she’s listened to so many times the words barely have meaning anymore.

 

*****

 

Later that day, Clarke needs to get Bellamy off her mind. So she does the only thing she knows always works, and skypes Wells Jaha.

They catch up fast, after apologies on both sides about letting it go so long without talking. He looks tired as he lists off his law classes, which are fun and which are killing him with homework. His final year is clearly taking its toll, Clarke sees. She asks how he’s doing, but he just sings praises about his girlfriend Harper, who’s constantly reminding him to take care of himself. Clarke hasn’t had a chance to meet her in person, but she’s joined skypes before and she’s the sweetest thing. They have a german shepherd-esque mutt named Percival who definitely thinks he’s much smaller than he actually is, and is currently splayed over Wells’ lap on the floor.

Wells has moved on to ask about Clarke’s life, and she answers hesitantly.

“Work is work, friends are friends,” she tries to dismiss him, but Wells eyes only narrow.

“You sure?”

“Yup, there’s really nothing going on here,” she lies, then quickly changes the subject by adding, “Miller’s doing well in police training, actually, he’s only got a couple months left now.”

“Oh, I know,” Wells answers. “I talked to him the other day, Clarke, and he said you guys had a new roommate. I just find it funny you haven’t mentioned him this entire time.”

Clarke cringes, caught red-handed.

“Well, I... Bellamy’s…”

Clarke’s thoughts seem to have deserted her, and she bites her lip for fear of saying anything that might set Wells’ alarms off even further. But saying nothing just does the same, and Wells looks up from the dog in his lap suspiciously.

“I don’t even want to talk about it,” Clarke concedes finally, dropping her face into her hands.

“Hey, it’s alright. Maybe I can help, just tell me.”

Clarke takes a breath. She’s unable to look at the screen, so she stares at her hands in her lap instead, turning them over and pulling on her fingers.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. I tried and I tried and yet these stupid feelings are still there and I can’t get rid of them. It’s driving me crazy, Wells!”

“Tell me everything, from the start. I’m listening.”

So Clarke does. It feels easy after that, and she pretends that she’s purging her mind of every detail about him. She talks about his bedhead, and the way that he’s always fucking touching her, even if it’s just a hand on her waist or getting rid an eyelash from her cheek or nudging her to point out something funny and make a joking comment. It’s constant, and she gets it, alright? The Blakes are tactile by nature. But there’s something really fucking torturous about knowing that Bellamy doesn’t get how much it affects her, how his touch makes her skin burn and breath quicken. To him, what they have is strictly platonic, and for the most part Clarke’s okay with that. But unrequited feelings are still a bitch.

“So you’re sure?” Wells asks along the way. “You’re positive he doesn’t feel the same?”

Clarke hesitates, hands stilled. The sound of his laugh rings in her ears as her memory replays the time they spent playing around in the kitchen, scratching her arm absentmindedly. Then her lips twist in a frown.

“I’m sure,” she says with a shake of her head. “There’s no way.”

Wells nods sympathetically and pets Percival. Clarke fills the silence with a sigh, putting her head in her hands.

“I just wish I could think straight! How do I make it stop?”

“Feelings don't just go away, Clarke. You have to face them, else they keep building and building till… well, you get the picture.”

Clarke wants to deny Wells’ wisdom, fight him and his goddamned reason and logic. But he’s right, and they both know it.

“I’m royally fucked,” Clarke resigns herself, looking up through her fingers at the screen. Wells is casting her a worried look, then his face brightens.

“Did I tell you about my bioethics teacher? He brings his cat to class. Every. Single. Day.”

Clarke laughs, encouraging him to go on. Inside, she’s dying for the distraction, and her mind breathes a sigh of relief as Wells launches into his story about one of his more eccentric law school teachers.

"So there's this girl in the front row who's allergic, right? But she..."

Much later, Clarke closes her ancient laptop and flop back onto her bed, hair tossed wildly around her. She reaches up a tired hand to tangle in it, then rolls onto her side.

Her eyes close and her mind races still, so she focuses on her breathing, in and out. It’s a calming habit for stressful times, and it serves her well now. She drifts off quickly, breathing become more and more steady. Her last, dim, thoughts are of Wells and her on the roof of her house, fancy champagne bottles dancing into her dreams. She falls asleep smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Isn't Wells the best????? ALSO WHAT WAS BELLAMY GOING TO TELL CLARKE OMG WHY DOES OCTAVIA HAVE SUCH AWFUL TIMING
> 
> kudos/comment to encourage us to post the next chapter asap! you can also bookmark to be notified for part four ;)


	4. Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here!!! The final installment, all 11.5k of it. Wow.
> 
> If you're enjoying reading, I made a picset you can reblog [_here._](http://clarkegriffvn.tumblr.com/post/129537670951/i-didnt-know-i-was-lonely-till-i-saw-your-face-a) It would mean a lot <3
> 
> Enjoy!

The day of the housewarming party arrives unnervingly quickly, sneaking up on Clarke during days when she’s rushed off her feet at the bar. She wakes up that morning more alive than usual, the thought of it creeping at her nerves. Bellamy’s _friends_ are coming over. They’re actually having _people_ over. Clarke’s friends don’t count; they’re lame and messy and she’s better off tossing some chips and beer at their heads than trying to impress them. But Bellamy’s friends? Game on.

Clarke considers drafting an itinerary for the morning, but then she would have to include an hour of time reserved for ‘ _ungrateful roommates making fun of itinerary and doing no work whatsoever_ ,’ so she opts to wing it.

“Alright guys, let’s get started,” she begins, looking at Miller and Bellamy. Octavia’s out with Raven buying beer, which of course they procrastinated till the last minute. Despite the unsurprisingly large alcohol collection they have on hand (for emergency True American purposes), they all know how much beer a party’s worth of people can take out. If they run out, all hell will break loose. Better safe than having to deal with drunk idiots in their 20s suddenly cut off from their booze.

Miller exhales, scratching the back of his head. He’s still wearing pyjama bottoms, Clarke notices, never mind the fact that it’s past noon. “Do we really need to clean? This place isn’t that bad.”

They all look around. Most of the couch cushions are still upturned from when Octavia left the apartment in a rush, searching for her phone. Their toaster is dissected on the coffee table, in the process of receiving some repairs from Raven. Clothing, pillows and blankets are tossed haphazardly, making the place look like it was recently frequented by an orgy (and despite how many jokes Raven may make, that is not the case). Clarke starts trying to calculate the last time someone actually vacuumed, but her math gets interrupted when Bellamy speaks up.

“Clarke’s right; the apartment could use it. Plus, I kind of don’t want anyone assuming that I’m living in squalor and this was the best we could tidy up. This is supposed to prove that I’ve moved on and I'm doing well, remember?” Bellamy reasons, adding the last part as an afterthought.

"Fine, fine," Miller grumpily waves his hands, reaching down and straightening a pile of disorganized magazines on the side table. He pulls his hand away with a flourish, and the gesture reminds Clarke of Raven.

Miller gets only an unimpressed look from Clarke and a vaguely anxious one from Bellamy, so he sighs and starts fixing the couches, muttering under his breath something about ' _goddamn neat freaks, goddamned perfect for each other._ ' Clarke ignores him and turns to Bellamy, a pink tinge to her cheeks.

"You can help Miller with the living room and kitchen. I'm going to fix the front hall so everyone will have room for their shoes and bags,” Clarke volunteers. It probably still looked like a war zone from that morning, when Raven was flinging things aside looking for her sandals. Clarke had to break it to her that she had lost them in the bar parking lot the week prior.

Bellamy only grimaces, quickly grabbing a handful of clothes. "Good idea."

“Hey, you alright?” Clarke asks, pausing. He’s been radiating nervousness all morning, and it’s making her uncomfortable.

“What? Oh, no, I’m fine,” he reassures her, shrugging.

Clarke bites her lip to stop from pursuing the subject, seeing Miller’s eyes flick up towards them out of the corner of her sight. He’s still muttering what are clearly snide comments under his breath, so she turns and crosses her arms at him.

“On second thought, Miller,” she says brightly, “you’re going to come help me.”

Miller freezes in the middle of fixing a couch cushion, eyes wide. Clarke turns on her heel and walks briskly to the front door, and a sigh later Miller is following behind. Once they’re out of Bellamy’s earshot, she spins back around and grabs him by the shirt to drag his head down.

“If you so much as _insinuate_ anything about my feelings for Bellamy tonight - in any way shape or form - I will dismember you and feed you to his cat,” she fumes, glaring.

“You wouldn’t,” Miller tries to dismiss her, but Clarke cuts him short with steel in her eyes.

“I _know_ shit about you, Nathan,” she threatens. “I know the name of your first crush, I know your most embarrassing memories in detail, and I know how to destroy you. If you even--”

“Clarke, chill!” Miller says exasperatedly. “I’ll keep the comments to a minimum, okay?”

Clarke pulls back a little, realizing how worked up she’s let herself become. She uncurls her fist from Miller’s shirt and rocks back on her heels, sighing away some of the anger.

“Good,” she states, straightening her back. “Okay. We can do this.”

“Honestly, you’re acting like this is the apocalypse or something. It’s a _party_. Try having some fun,” Miller advises her, opening the closet to start shoving shoes in haphazardly. “Unless end of the world is more your style. You know, if anyone was going to survive, I can see it being us.”

She picks up a flip flop and whacks him in the arm. “Can you at least try to clean well?”

“If it was the apocalypse, I wouldn’t have to clean at all,” he grumbles.

“If it was the apocalypse, I would have left you for dead by now.”

“Liar,” Miller states blandly.

“Shut up and organize, asshole.”

*****

Bellamy looks happy, and Clarke doesn’t know what to make of it. Sure, she’s seen him happy before, but it was different then, more brief and flickering. Like when they were having movie night and Octavia was successfully throwing popcorn into his mouth, or when he showed Clarke the card a student made for him once about how he was their favourite teacher. But now he’s opening the door and greeting old friends and Clarke can see contentedness radiating off of him.

There’s the oft-mentioned Monty of course, plus Monroe, Bellamy’s childhood friend, and Echo, his gym buddy. And then there’s Maya, who apparently saved his ass in Art History at university. _‘Now, they get together on a monthly basis to do sophisticated shit like drink black coffee and discuss people who died thousands of years ago,’_ Octavia tells Clarke, when she asks about the dark-haired girl. Clarke tries to commit all their names to memory, and tries not to think too much about how many beautiful women Bellamy is close friends with.

Instead she welcomes the guests openly, reminding Raven and Miller to be on their best behaviour.

“Come on guys, they have to like us,” she reasons quietly as Bellamy juggles his friends pelting him with questions and hugs behind her back. “Bellamy lives here now, they’re going to be around.”

“Yes, mom,” Miller sighs, looking over her shoulder to inspect their guests.

Raven laughs, handing him a beer.

“That’s my line,” she quips with mock-offense.

“Great minds,” Miller answers, and they clink bottles with a shared smile.

Clarke sighs and puts her head in her hands, trying to piece together the remains of her energy in preparation for the night ahead. Then she feels the weight of Miller’s hand on her shoulder and looks up.

“Don’t worry Clarke, we got this,” he reassures her.

Raven and Miller avert their attention to something behind Clarke and she turns to see Bellamy motioning them over.

Raven grins wolfishly, grabbing Clarke’s arm.

“Let’s do this shit,” she says under her breath, pulling Clarke forward along with her.

Her friends are the best. Clarke pushes her chin up and hooks her arm in Raven’s as they walk up to Bellamy’s friends.

“Hi, I’m Clarke.”

*****

With the last of the invites trickling through, the night has begun in earnest now. Bellamy actually has a decent amount of friends, despite Octavia’s insistence that they consisted of three people, Netflix, and a paperclip.

Clarke’s just completed her first official party rounds, and her hopes for the night have plummeted.

 _Who the fuck thought a party was a good idea, again?_ she questions for the millionth time, before her eyes land on the devil herself. Octavia’s crashed on the couch, phone three inches away from her nose.

"Jasper and Raven can't be within 10 feet of each other, Murphy has to be kept away from all sharp objects, and if anyone is going to throw up, at least point them the fuck away from my room," Clarke announces, flopping down next to her.

Octavia rolls her eyes. "Roger that, General Griffin."

"O, please--"

"Clarke, you have to loosen up! Just try to enjoy yourself for once,” Octavia advises, purple fingernails of one hand tapping on her beer bottle.

Clarke exhales and rubs a hand over her temple.

“I am, honestly. It’s been a long day.”

"Aww, come here," Octavia keens, tossing her phone aside and drawing her into a hug.

Octavia hugs always last at least ten seconds longer than normal people hugs, but nothing ever gets awkward because it's _Octavia_. It would be weird if it was any shorter. She's a hugger, alright. Clarke idly wonders if Bellamy shares that with his sister.

"Thanks O," Clarke says with a sigh afterwards. The girl beams at her and stands up off the couch.

"Anytime. Lincoln's almost here, he just texted. I'm gonna go down and..." She makes a vague hand gesture, already tiptoeing away, and Clarke just rolls her eyes.

"No making out in my elevator!" she shouts after her.

"You can't control me, Griffin!" Octavia shouts back, turning the corner to exit.

“Or anything else, apparently,” Clarke mutters to herself, still unable to shake the gloom and doom off. It was a dark day when even Octavia couldn’t cheer Clarke up. But she hid it well, so that might be it. Hell if Clarke’s telling her best friend that she’s head over heels for her _brother_ of all people.

She smooths her hands over her shirt, eyes roaming over the room. Against her will they land on Bellamy, circled by Maya, Monroe, and, more surprisingly, Wick, who kind of just showed up. Raven denies texting him, even though everyone assumes it was her. Everyone but Clarke, that is, who recalls walking in on Miller in the kitchen, Raven’s phone in hand. His head snapped up immediately, then he held a finger to his lips. Clarke just rolled her eyes and got her glass of orange juice. Questioning things around here never seems to end well anyways.

Clarke snaps her gaze away from Bellamy, berating herself once again. _Your life does not revolve around Bellamy Blake_.

Then she spots Murphy inspecting photos on the mantle, fingers poking carelessly at a cheesy glass statuette she thinks Octavia must have put there. She’s on her feet in seconds, because it gives her something to do. Her hand snaps out and grabs him by the arm, dragging him away.

“Hey, I wasn’t even touching anything!” Murphy protests, tripping over his feet.

Clarke rolls her eyes and ignores the obvious reflex lie, coming to a stop next to Miller in the kitchen.

“If he breaks anything - or anyone - I’m blaming it on you, Miller,” she says sternly, poking Miller in the chest. Clarke looks at Murphy’s judgemental face and sours, turning away and stalking back toward her isolated spot on the couch.

“Stay here,” she hears Miller tell Murphy, grabbing a beer and pushing it into his hands.

“Clarke, are you alright?” Miller asks, catching up to her as they stop in the living room. “You've been on edge all night."

Clarke sinks into the couch, deflating. Of course she has. Wells' words haven't stopped echoing in her mind all week, even now.

_Feelings don't just go away, Clarke. You have to face them, else they keep building and building till… well, you get the picture._

Fuck feelings, honestly. She's been bottling things up in her all her life; a few more can't hurt, right?

Just as she turns away from Miller’s searching eyes, she sees _him_. Bellamy. Head thrown back in laughter, long line of tan throat leading down to a button-up shirt, just the right amount of collarbone on display. The perfect profile view; his freckled cheekbones catching the light, his curls tossed messily... Clarke’s fingers itch to capture the moment on paper. She digs her fingernails into her palms instead, watching as he flashes a grin to his friend Monty, who made him laugh.

“What are you…” Miller trails off, following her eyeline. “Oh.”

Clarke grimaces and looks up at the ceiling. “Yeah, pretty much,” she replies, head flopping back on the couch.

“C’mon, don’t think of it like that,” Miller tries to encourage, sitting opposite her on the edge of the coffee table with his forearms on his knees. “You’re Clarke Griffin; nothing fazes you.” He reaches out and nudges her in the arm. “You’re gonna figure it out, kid.”

“‘Kid?’” Clarke repeats with a snort. “I’m like five months older than you.”

“You laughed at a fart joke Raven made yesterday!” Miller shoots back.

Clarke laughs despite herself, close to shedding her jaded mood. “So did you!”

“I barely even smiled!”

“Yeah, but for you that’s the equivalent of gut-busting laughter,” Clarke grins.

Miller rolls his eyes and takes a swig of his beer, leaning back. He turns his head back in Bellamy’s direction, his expression unreadable. Clarke’s longtime friend looks good tonight, she notices. Police training has done a number on his arms, as well as the rest of him. He’s wearing that grey t-shirt that he only wears when Octavia tosses it at his head yelling about how he needs to _‘flaunt his hot bod and make all the cute boys swoon.'_

“Hey, who’s that guy B’s talking to?” he asks, and Clarke can tell he’s forcing his voice to stay casual.

Her eyebrows shoot up suspiciously as she turns to look at Monty, then back at Miller.

“Monty Green, Bellamy’s teacher friend." Clarke answers slowly, smile creeping onto her face.

“That’s him?” Miller asks in surprise, head tilting slightly as he continues watching Monty. “The guy who’s supposedly going to drink us all under the table?”

Clarke grins at her friend, nudging him back to get his attention.

"Why so interested?” she teases.

“What? No! I was just…” he flounders, caught off guard.

Clarke cackles at his panicked expression. If he didn’t have that damn beanie pushed down over his ears, she would swear they’re bright red right now.

“Uhuh, suuure,” Clarke teases, earning a glare.

“I hate you,” Miller grumbles, standing up from the coffee table.

“Love you too,” she calls as Miller walks off, hopefully to go bribe Murphy with food and alcohol to keep him in check.

Seconds later she exhales, the smile lingering on her face as she covertly glances back up at Monty. He looks a bit small next to Bellamy, but that might just be the way he stands with his limbs folded into himself. He definitely gives off the teacher vibe, neat-looking in a soft cardigan. Only his dark hair is slightly messed, as he reaches up to push it away from where it hangs in his eyes.

Clarke’s busy trying to scrutinize if Monty’s Miller’s type when the door swings wide open. Octavia is revealed, Lincoln in tow. Party guests turn to take in the new face, but Octavia blows past them as if her 6ft, tattooed boyfriend fits in just fine, thank you very much. It’s actually kind of sweet, Clarke thinks. Octavia will force you to feel comfortable even if it means making everyone else uncomfortable in the process. That is, if she likes you.

Octavia beelines it back to her, sitting Lincoln down on the couch before pecking him on the cheek and running off to grab them drinks.

“Lincoln,” Clarke says, watching him nod at Bellamy across the room.

“Clarke,” he echoes, mouth twitching up at their weird habitual greeting.

“How’s the gallery?” she asks, also part of the ritual. Lincoln is one of Clarke’s only artsy friends, and she likes to catch up on his business every time Octavia runs off to do something or other (or the times when they’re running after her).

Lincoln’s eyes brighten, and he shifts in his seat to turn more towards her.

“We’re opening a new exhibition next week, an Aboriginal mixed-media art installation.”

“Sculpture?”

He nods. “Coloured plexiglass, pieces up to a meter wide all puzzled together. And projection as well; there are large images cast over the surface, creating beautiful light fragments that...”

Lincoln keeps going, describing the new piece in detail just for Clarke. It cheers her up, to a degree, but in a way it also saddens her. Her inspiration has been gone for a long time now, but she can still appreciate the art of others. Plus, talking to Lincoln is always relaxing.

“So how’s Bellamy?” he finally asks, looking at him briefly across the room.

Clarke grimaces at the question she’s been expecting all night.

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Because he’ll just shrug like he has no idea what I’m talking about, then change the subject,” Lincoln answers dryly. “And if I ask Octavia, it sets her off on a worried rant about him. I need a third party.”

Clarke doesn’t know how else to avoid the question, so she soaks back into the couch, thinking.

“He’s better, I think,” she starts. “I mean, I don’t know what he was like before he moved in here, but,” Clarke pauses and frowns, trying to recall how much Bellamy has changed. “He’s a lot happier now. Today especially. I think he’s falling into the rhythm of things around here and it’s… it’s good. Nice.”

Lincoln nods, like he already knew what Clarke was going to say, but needed the affirmation.

 _There are more people looking out for you than you think, Bellamy Blake,_ Clarke thinks, catching sight of him out of the corner of her eye.

“Why did you want to know?” Clarke asks curiously.

Lincoln rubs a hand over his jaw, leaning to one side of the couch.

“I thought he’d be more scared.”

“Scared?”

“Scared to get close to people again. Scared of being hurt, like he was. But he’s taken to you all quite well, I think. He really cares about you,” Lincoln observes, watching Bellamy across the room. Clarke stills at that, listening intently. “The pros of a bleeding heart, I suppose,” Lincoln muses, before adding, “I’m glad to be proven wrong, though.”

Clarke nods hesitantly, still processing Lincoln’s words. Bellamy did hesitate at first, but it wasn’t long until they all worked their way into his inner circle, and him into theirs. Clarke never really questioned the way things happened, or considered how hard it would be for Bellamy to start trusting people again.

 _I would never hurt him like that,_ Clarke thinks determinedly.

Then Lincoln looks away and Clarke follows his gaze. Octavia is sashaying back from parts unknown of the apartment, two beers hooked in one hand.

“C’mon boys,” she says over her shoulder, waving someone forward.

Clarke turns to watch as Murphy and Miller enter behind her, carrying a huge, black, box-shaped object. Murphy is swearing vehemently at the weight and Miller looks vaguely bored, but Clarke can tell his arms are straining. The room quiets, guests distracted by the hulking machine.

Clarke gets a better look as Murphy and Miller set it down on the dining room table, next to the disassembled toaster that Raven never finished repairing. Octavia steps up to it, grinning, and starts unwinding a black cord to plug it in. Murphy nearly trips on his way to step over it, and flips Octavia off as he retreats back to the kitchen.

“Is that…?” Raven says, aghast.

“The Boombox!” Clarke exclaims, recognizing the beloved machine.

“That’s a boombox?” Monty says, approaching the table with Bellamy, who looks equally confused.

“No,” Raven answers sternly from across the room, “It’s a hellish franken-contraption masquerading as a boombox, that was _meant_ to have been destroyed years ago!”

“You made it,” Miller points out, fiddling with a mix of modern and outdated controls.

Wick, who’s been scrutinizing the boombox, laughs.

Raven casts a glare his way before justifying, “That was forever ago! And you guys didn’t help at all.”

“Neither did the vodka, I suppose,” Octavia muses, elbowing her brother jokingly. Bellamy snorts and takes a swig of his drink, taking the eccentric story in stride. Clarke smiles at the fond memory.

“Speaking of vodka,” Murphy announces, walking back in from the kitchen and setting a tray of shots on the top of the boombox.

As if on cue, Miller gets the music started. It starts quiet and scratchy, then Raven is rolling her eyes and slapping his hands away from the controls. She hits it twice on the top and once on the side, then proceeds to turn it up to a mind-numbing, party-worthy decibel. Wick whoops, hand swooping in the steal a shot. Other party guests are drawn toward the alcohol, and soon a circle of people are raising shots and shouting. Clarke watches as Octavia plops a shot in Bellamy’s hand, his friend Echo laughing and patting him on the back as she grabs her own.

“What is this music?” Lincoln shouts from beside Clarke, grimacing a little.

“I think this is one of the CDs Miller stole from the club he used to work at!” she shouts back, feeling the bass pounding through the soles of her feet. She starts tapping her toe along to the wordless blur of techno, watching as Octavia manages to break out of the clump of people and make it back to the couch, still holding her and Lincoln’s drinks.

“Sorry it took me so long!” she says, walking up.

Lincoln stands up and takes his beer with one hand, pressing the other to the small of Octavia’s back to lean down and kiss her sweetly.

“No problem," he answers. "I’m going to go talk to Bellamy, alright?”

Octavia smiles brightly at him in reaction to the kiss, her sparkling grin that has been known to make lesser men and women faint. Lincoln simply smiles back and slips out of her grip, seeking out Bellamy.

"Lincoln's the best," Octavia announces dreamily over the music, reaching out to grab Clarke's hand.

"Yeah," she answers, words lost in the music. She swings their hands idly, eyes roaming around the room.

Octavia starts to swing their hands more, a devilish grin growing. She begins dancing on the spot, pulling on Clarke’s arm and trying to tug her off the couch.

“Octavia, no!” Clarke says, but there’s a laugh pulling at her words.

“Come on Clarke! You promised to try and have fun!”

Clarke’s shoulders lower and she rolls her eyes, allowing herself to be dragged upright. She smooths her skirt, seting her and Octavia’s drinks down. They push the coffee table aside, making an open dance floor. Octavia grabs her hands and spins her around, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Clarke smiles into the movement, relaxing even further. They jump to the beat, pulling their joined hands back and forth. People are watching now, unsure whether or not to join in.

“Get out here, Reyes,” Octavia calls.

“Give me a second,” Raven yells back, strained. Clarke looks past Octavia to see Raven bodily dragging Bellamy toward the dance floor, her grip on his arm vice-tight. Wick is at his back, trying to push, his socks sliding on the hardwood.  


“I don’t dance!” Bellamy yelps, digging his feet into the floor and leaning his weight away from Raven. Clarke feels a laugh bubble up at the sight, and the hilarity of it.

“You do tonight!” Wick answers, giving Bellamy a good shove.

Behind the struggle Lincoln bursts into laughter, which catches Octavia’s attention. She proceeds to ditch Clarke and run to him, trying to drag him on too.

“Dance party! Dance party!” Octavia chants, making Clarke hunch over with laughter.

She’s tempted to whip out her phone and get this on camera, but as she looks to the side she can see Monty is already on it, stifling his laughter on the sleeve of his sweater. Miller is doing less of a good job holding it in, and Clarke sees Monty nudge him with his elbow to get him to shut up.

“Come on, Bellamy!” Echo yells, walking onto the cleared area next to Clarke and dancing a little as if to show him how it’s done.

Maya and Monroe follow together, then Jasper, then Monty, who tosses his phone at Miller and grabs Bellamy’s other arm.

“You’re all horrible friends!” Bellamy declares loudly, looking around for someone to side with him.

“Just give up,” advises Lincoln over the music, who’s dancing next to Octavia already. “It’s no use fighting!”

“Miller!?” Bellamy calls as a last resort.

Miller shrugs, walking toward Bellamy and slowly pushing up the sleeves of his shirt. “Lincoln’s right, resistance is futile.”

Bellamy immediately stops pulling at that, putting his hands up in surrender. His kidnappers let go, Monty laughing loudly at Bellamy’s defeat and turning to pluck his phone out of Miller’s hands. MIller says something to Monty with a sly half-smile and Monty laughs again, making Clarke’s heart jump. She tries to move closer to catch their conversation, but is rushed by Wick and Raven as they finally push Bellamy into the middle of the dancing crowd. He’s ruefully grinning now as he stops near her, obscuring her view.

“Just dance, Bellamy!” she shouts up at him, tempted to reach out and pull him closer.

He seems to finally let go, tilting his head back and smiling a little as he jumps to the music. Clarke laughs at the sight of his curls bouncing like that, but her voice lost in the noise. Someone jostles her from behind and she steps a little closer to him, pulse speeding up to match the beat of the club music.

Bellamy’s warm and flushed, and there’s a little crease in his brow from concentrating on where he’s putting his feet. Clarke laughs at his expression, licking her dry lips. Bellamy smiles down at her, even more genuinely this time, and Clarke lets all pretenses drop away.

 _Ah, fuck it,_ she thinks. She reaches out and grabs his hands, encouraging him to keep dancing. Bellamy rolls with it without a moment’s hesitation, entwining their fingers. Suddenly the people around them start to drop away in Clarke’s mind. Even the blaring music quiets a little, replaced brown eyes and soft hands. Clarke pulls on hand away to flick the hair out of her face and Bellamy takes advantage of it, spinning her out and back in. She follows stumblingly, laughing as it catches her off guard.

That song fades into another, and another after that, and another after that. When Bellamy is whirled away by the others, Clarke keeps going, full of adrenaline. Now Octavia has spun her way to the centre of the floor, her silver earrings glinting under the lights as she twists her head one way and the other, arms raised in the air as if she’s in her own world. Lincoln has long since tired, and now leans to the side of the room with Miller and Monroe.

Clarke spends her time flitting from person to person, never dancing alone. She loves feeding off their energy, whether it’s Monty’s rave-like excitement, Wick’s goofy dad dance moves, Echo’s tireless intensity, or Maya’s laughing grace. Raven is hoisted on Wick’s shoulders at one point, seeing as her brace doesn’t take too well to excessive jumping. Thankfully there’s only been one round of shots total, which leaves everyone’s balance in relatively good condition.

Finally Clarke breaks out of the group, breathing heavy as she walks to grab her drink from the relocated coffee table. When she turns around, bottle tipped upside down as she drains its contents, she sees Bellamy is walking directly toward her. Clarke’s pulse jumps but she fights it down, emptying her mind.

“I asked Raven what True American was and she laughed like an evil scientist. Should I be concerned?” he yells over the music, half-serious.

“Depends,” Clarke answers, attempting a friendly smile. “How do you feel about overly complicated drinking games?”

Bellamy scoffs cockily, spreading his arms wide. Clarke wants to smack the stupid grin off his face. With her mouth, which probably says something about her as a person.

“You’re talking to the _king_ of staff Christmas party drinking games, Clarke. I’m Arcadia High’s reigning champ.”

She shakes her head, faux-serious.

"Get ready to be dethroned, Blake. True American is the King of drinking games, and I'm the Queen!"

Well, that isn't quite right, but she's in a boastful mood. The TA championship is always in a four-way split between them, and they're all really really good in their own ways. Octavia's great at introducing new rules that suit her, Raven can shotgun a beer like no one's business, Miller is scarily good at completing quotes, and Clarke has great balance, considering the floor is lava.

"What even is it?" Bellamy asks again, genuinely fascinated.

"True American?" Raven interrupts, appearing out of the crowd with a beer in her hand and a glint in her eye.

"Yeah," Clarke says.

"I mean, it's mostly drinking. But the floor is lava and it's like Candyland," she begins, enthusiastically trying to include everything.

"And America-themed!" Miller pitches in, turning down the music across the room. The dancing starts breaking up and he walks over, drawn into the conversation by his favourite topic.

"And everything is a lie," Clarke adds, trying to be helpful.

Bellamy just laughs. "Sounds fun."

"Fun!?" scoffs Miller. "TA is serious business, Blake."

"So then what are we betting?" Bellamy follows up with.

Raven snorts on her beer. "These broke ass idiots? Please. It's eternal bragging rights or squat."

Clarke opens her mouth to protest, then bites her lip, seeing as Raven’s right. They look to Bellamy, awaiting his response.

"I’m in," Bellamy answers with a grin.

*****

Eventually, they manage to gather everyone willing to play in a circle, the rest having been exiled to the kitchen. Clarke reminds herself of all the new names and faces while Miller runs around trying to set up the furniture.

Maya chose to sit out and watch instead of playing, seeing as she has to drive home. Jasper not-so-subtly did the same, shooting Monty a thumbs-up. Clarke prays Jasper’s flirting has gotten better from his many failed attempts bartending at Anya’s, mostly because she doesn’t want Maya to have to experience the horror.

Soon after the dancing stopped, Octavia was found passed out on the couch, dead asleep. Lincoln ended up carrying her out, waving a quick goodbye to everyone.

That leaves Echo, Monty, the roommates, and Wick. Murphy’s out smoking on the roof with Monroe, thank god. Miller’s convinced them to let Murphy play True American before, and it was not a pleasant experience. Lines were drawn, furniture was broken, and Clarke can never look at spray cheese the same.

“Right!” claps Raven, perched on the sofa above the rest of them, her leg stretched out and resting, Clarke notes with a smile, on Wick’s shoulder. “True American, only the greatest of all drinking games.”

“The only rule is that there are no rules,” Miller chimes in, sitting down next to Monty.

"But--" Monty starts, but is quickly cut off.

"And no questions!" Clarke and Raven cry in sync. Clarke laughs, and they share a grin.

"They're first time players, so that rule will be suspended until Game Start," Miller chastises wisely, before looking back to Monty, encouraging him to ask his question.

"How do we win?" Monty asks, a teasing edge to his words.

Miller grins. "Okay, so there's furniture and pillows set up around the table, like the spaces you move in Candyland. In the middle is the king, surrounded by the pawns-- the knights of the secret order."

"That means a shitton of beer and the king is a bottle of liquor," Clarke supplies once Monty starts to look confused.

"Right," Miller continues. "There's a bunch of things you can do to move spaces and take out all the beer in one section, in order to reach the king and take a swig. Just follow along, never be without a beer in your hand, and don't step in the lava."

Clarke is stunned that he's even spoken this much, and wonders if he's used up his word allotment and will be mute the rest of the night. She turns to look at Bellamy beside her and he's cracking his knuckles, lips pressed together in determination. Raven hoists a case of beer from the floor to her lap, hand rifling through.

"GO GO GO!" she shouts, tossing cans of beer at people's heads.

Bellamy catches his beer and holds it up quizzically.

“Shotgun contest to see who gets first turn,” Clarke rushes, grabbing the pocket knife Miller passed around and stabbing a hole in her drink. She feels Bellamy take it from her fingers, but her lips are already wrapped around the hole in the side of her beer.

The liquid bubbles down her throat, but Clarke takes her time. She's already resigned herself with coming second, watching Raven and Miller chug faster than humanly possible out of the corner of her eye. Bellamy isn't doing too badly himself, a couple drops escaping and running down his chin.

“I win!” shrieks a victorious Raven, beer can thrust high in the air. Miller yells incoherently and hops over the back of the couch, grabbing Monty's hand. Clarke tosses her own empty can aside and turns to Bellamy quickly, shouting over the rabble.

“Okay, so since Raven won shotgun, she’s got first turn. That means she’s about to shout--”

“One! Two! Three! Four!” Raven yells. “J.F.K!”

“F.D.R!” Clarke hollers with the group, too caught up in the energy of True American to make sure the newbies are playing along.

She hops off the couch and pulls Bellamy down by the arm, pushing him towards the center table.

“Go!” she yells. “Grab a pawn and find something to stand on! The floor is lava, remember?”

Bellamy stumbles forward but launches into action quickly afterward, running to the Castle to get a drink, then hopping up on a chair and crouching defensively. Clarke skids to a stop next to him, stepping up onto the end table in the first zone of furniture, which together form a four-leaf clover around the Castle. Raven is teetering on a couch cushion across the room, with Echo on her right, two feet planted on a flipped over kitchen pot, and Wick to her left. He’s standing perched on an armchair, propped up on his arms and dangling over the back. Monty and Miller have claimed the relocated coffee table, and are discussing game strategy enthusiastically. 

“All trash belongs?” Raven yells, hoisting her empty can.

“In the junkyard!” Miller and Monty answer, mirroring Raven as they throw their cans in perfect arcs into a tipped recycling bin in the corner. Echo and Bellamy follow soon after, and Clarke panics as she realizes she already tossed her can away, a rookie mistake. She looks around for an empty one to fake it, but suddenly Miller is pointing at her.

“Treason!” he shouts. “I invoke Clinton rules!”

“What are Clinton rules?” Wick asks, looking to Raven.

“Should a player violate a rule, fail a task, or attempt to cheat, instead of being kicked out, they have to strip,” Raven recites, grinning wolfishly.

“No way!” Clarke finally gets a word in, glaring at Miller.

She narrows her eyes at him, but he just shrugs innocently, a smile barely touching his lips. Monty’s bopping his head to the faint music beside him, and Clarke quirks an eyebrow at Miller, eyes flicking between them. _You wanna play dirty, huh?_ Miller’s eyes widen in horror, and he mouths ‘ _you wouldn’t_.’

“Clarke!” Raven chastises, breaking up the silent battle. “Come on, it’s True American! Loosen up!”

“You can at least afford to lose your sweater,” Bellamy adds. “You’re going to have to sweat to beat me, Griffin. I’m winning this thing whether you like it or not.”

That’s it. Clarke stares Bellamy dead in the eye as she takes off her sweater, then throws it in his face. When he pulls it off and tosses it away, he’s grinning.

“Bring it on, Blake.”

*****

Clarke doesn’t know how long it’s been, and she doesn’t care. Most people have already left the party, including Murphy, thank God. That kid looked like he was going to steal something, and watching him down an insane amount of brown liquor without flinching wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“Alright,” Monty commands, having picked up the rules easily. “One, two, three, four!”

On four, they all put a number of fingers from one to four on their foreheads. Echo, the only one who doesn’t have the same number as anyone else, pumps a fist in the air and hops to the chair next to her, one place away from the Castle - her third last beer till the win. Clarke and Miller have four, Bellamy has three, Raven and Monty both only have two. Clarke suspects that Miller’s been helping Monty out with his drinks, but has yet to catch him. In a way she’s lucky she hasn’t, seeing as Miller is down to his jeans, and well, nothing else.

Not that anyone was better off, clothing-wise. Clarke was down to her undershirt and the little black shorts she had worn under her skirt (Octavia had demanded that they dress up). Raven had lost her top and socks, despite her swear-riddled protests that she did nothing wrong (she’s a smooth cheat, but not _that_ smooth). Wick has long since been eliminated, after repeatedly stumbling into the lava. He’d stripped to boxers and bowed out of the contest, tossing on the nearest items of clothing. Now he’s lounging on the couch wearing Raven’s shirt and cheering them (but mostly her) on.

“Hey, is this a toaster?” he asks, wandering around the place idly.

“Yup!” Miller shouts back absentmindedly, skating across the floor with a cushion under each foot. Monty is hunched over laughing, but Clarke can see the way his knuckles whiten on his bottle, eyes dancing up the muscles in Miller's back. _There's hope!_

Clarke looks over her shoulder for Bellamy, but instead sees Wick fiddling with the disassembled toaster parts, one hand planted on the dining room table.

“Is that part meant to be…” he trails off, interrupted by Echo, who takes a look at the clock on the wall and lets out a little shriek.

“Shit,” she hisses, jumping down from her chair and ignoring Miller’s squawk of victory. “Is that really the time? It’s my sister’s birthday tomorrow, I have to go.”

“Don’t you mean today?” Miller asks, smirking. Clarke doesn’t think he’s that disappointed by Echo’s departure, especially since it means that Monty is one step closer to becoming the winner.

“Hey, don’t be rude,” Monty chastises, hitting Miller in the arm affectionately. “Bye, Echo!”

Echo quickly waves to Monty and Bellamy as she gathers her stuff and rushes out the door.

“Do you even have brains?" Raven snaps as the door slams, her glare directed at Wick in the dining room.

"Land of the free!" Bellamy yells over her, looking to Clarke.

"Home of the brave!" Everyone but Raven finishes.

Mid-movement, Clarke and Miller look to her in surprise. She’s standing half-dressed on a stool with her hands on her hips.

"Does this looks right?" Wick asks her, a mischievous glint in his eye.

There's an audible gasp as Raven steps down from the stool and marches over to him, listing names of various metal parts that Clarke can't catch.

“Final four!” shouts Monty, turning to high-five Miller and breaking the stunned silence.

Clarke turns to grin at Bellamy, but sees something click in his mind as he’s watching Miller and Monty. He meets her gaze with raised eyebrows, and Clarke nods conspiratorially in response, making him smile even wider.

“J.F.K.!” shouts Bellamy before tipping his beer back.

“F.D.R.!” they echo, but Clarke can tell it catches the other two off guard.

As is the tradition, she chugs the last of her beer and looks around to see who’s last. Bellamy’s already finished and Miller’s just finishing up, with Monty a few seconds behind.

“Treason!” Clarke shouts, pointing at the defeated Monty.

“Hey, I just got a full one, that’s not fair!” he tries to argue, wiping his mouth on the long sleeves of his cardigan. He glances over at Miller for back-up.

“Nothing's fair in True American,” Bellamy points out, before adding, “All trash belongs?”

“In the junkyard!” they all answer as they throw their cans, Miller and Monty much quieter this time.

“Fine, fine,” Monty sighs afterwards, hopping on one foot to peel his socks off.

Clarke makes a noise of protest, looking to Bellamy. She’s caught off guard for a second, her alcohol-tinged mind distracted by the ripple of his chest in the dim light. He’s shirtless and sockless and beltless but most importantly _shirtless_. Clarke gathers up her sensibility and uses it to beat away the growing heat in her cheeks. Thank god Bellamy’s still eyeing Monty and Miller, a mischievous glint in his eye. Clarke doesn’t think she could handle his reaction to her staring, and _oh god_ , she’s really staring now, isn’t she?

“Hey Monty, that cardigan is a really unfair advantage,” Bellamy accuses, eyebrows drawn together in a way that Clarke can tell is exaggerated. It snaps her out of her head, and she sees Monty looks relatively convinced, looking down at his cardigan with concern and then back up to Bellamy.

“Yeah, Miller’s barely got anything on!” Clarke adds, holding back a snicker at the way Miller shifts uncomfortably on his bare feet.

Monty turns to Miller in concern, arms wrapping his cardigan around himself defensively as he stands back up, socks tossed aside.

“He already took something off,” Miller argues in Monty’s defense. “My beanie counted as an item!”

“Yeah, but you _never_ take that off,” Clarke points out triumphantly. She gets why Miller’s being so deliberately obtuse, and it’s cute, really, but it’s also incredibly frustrating. Can’t he see that this is their desperate attempt to wingman him?

“C’mon, Monty, it’s the rules!” Bellamy insists.

At that, an idea starts to form in Clarke’s mind. A grin spreads across her face, which she hides under one hand.

“It’s unfair,” Monty reasons.

“He shouldn’t have to!” Miller reinforces.

“I don’t, do I?”

“No,” Miller tries to say, but is overridden by Bellamy’s exasperated, “Yes!”

“Woah, woah, everyone calm down!” Clarke shouts. They quiet and look at her. “Clinton rules dictate that if an argument arises, we have to do a kiss count.”

“ _No_ ,” Miller repeats sternly, eyes widening.

“What’s that?” Monty asks, looking at Clarke.

“I count, and on four we all put up numbers. The people with the same numbers will be locked in that room until they kiss.”

“That’s a great idea,” Bellamy answers, cheeks flushed from drinking. His eyes light up at Clarke and she finds it hard to look away.

“Hold up!” Miller says. “I call court!”

The lava is momentarily solidified and they gather, sitting in a circle around the Castle to discuss. As Bellamy and Clarke become more insistent, Miller’s protests fade and the count is prepared.

Somewhere during their argument, Clarke sneaks a hand under the table. She uses it to tap Bellamy three times on the leg, trying to send a message. _I’m putting up three, don’t do three._ He nods out of the corner of her sight.

“You done?” Clarke asks Miller with an arched eyebrow.

“Yes, fine, get on with it.”

Monty looks away, fingers pattering anxiously against the table like a keyboard.

“Alright,” Bellamy counts. “One, two, three, four!”

Clarke puts up her numbers, eyes glued to Miller and Monty across from her.

_Please please please - no!_

To Clarke’s dismay, Miller holds up one and Monty two. And even though it’s promising that their eyes immediately go to one another’s numbers in anticipation, Clarke is pissed. Then, something insane happens.

“Guys…” Monty sing-songs, grin slowly spreading. Miller catches on, and nearly falls out of his seat laughing after looking at Clarke and Bellamy.

“What?” asks Clarke, but dread is already seeping into her voice.

She looks at Bellamy. He’s holding up three.

*****

“You can’t do this!” Clarke shouts as she’s pushed into the nearest room by Raven and Wick.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” chant the remaining partygoers.

Bellamy is shoved in behind her, eyes wide as if he still hasn’t processed what’s happening. The door slams, but the chanting is still heard. Clarke looks around wildly, noticing that they’re in Bellamy’s room. She immediately rushes back up to the door, trying the knob. It’s locked.

“I told you not to put up three!” she accuses Bellamy, spinning to face him.

“I thought you meant to hold up three!” he answers, and yeah, okay, Clarke inwardly admits that she wasn’t being that clear.

“Shitfuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her hair.

“Might as well get this over with,” Bellamy says, stepping toward her with hands raised.

“No!” Clarke snaps. “We are not ‘getting this over with!’”

“Just kiss me, it’s fine! It doesn’t mean anything.”

The words hit Clarke like fire, and she recoils, burned. _Maybe not to you,_ she thinks.

“I am not kissing you,” Clarke answers shakily, poking Bellamy in the chest.

"If you want to get out of this room, we're going to have to," he reasons, moving infinitesimally closer and resting a hand on her waist.

"No, we don't!" Clarke answers, jolting away and crossing her arms stubbornly. She _can’t_ , not here with their friends screaming through the closed door. It’s not how she imagined this happening, the rare occasions where she let herself daydream about Bellamy’s lips on hers, his hands in her hair.

"I can't believe you're being so childish about this,” Bellamy exclaims. “We’re both adults, just kiss me!”

"No!"

"Why the hell not? One kiss between friends and this whole thing is over, come on.”

Clarke bites her lip, hard. Every single cell in her body is telling her to get away _,_ because she knows that if she allows this - if she _enjoys_ it (which, given her feelings, is almost certain to happen) - the roommate dynamic will irreparably fucked up. She’ll have to say goodbye to any hope of a platonic relationship with Bellamy; she’ll probably have to forget about living in the apartment, because God knows that Clarke won’t be able to look him in the eyes after this. And maybe she _is_ being a little dramatic, but so what? It’s justified, given the situation.

"I shouldn't have to answer that!"

"Just. Kiss. Me,” Bellamy groans, drawing closer with every word. “Clarke, come on.”

"No!"

"Clarke--"

"Not like this!"

Bellamy freezes, and Clarke’s sharp intake of breath only emphasizes the sudden silence.

"What?"

"I mean, uh," Clarke stutters.

"'Not like this?'" Bellamy offers, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

Clarke recoils like she's been burned. Did she really say that? She has to get out, can't be here with his accusatory eyes and unfairly nice smiles. She twists away from Bellamy's searching gaze and pounds a fist against the door. The chanting has faded.

"Let us out of here!"

Bellamy steps up behind her, fingers catching her elbows and moving her aside. Clarke blinks rapidly and wraps her arms around her middle as she turns to watch him take over.

"Here,” he offers, suddenly serious. “Miller taught me how to pick locks the other day; I think I can help."

"You've been holding back all this time?" she answers, not sure whether to be relieved or worried. Sure, there's no place she wants to be _less_ than in this tiny room, but Bellamy's abrupt u-turn from quietly cocky to stoic and just as desperate to leave as she is worries her.

Bellamy shrugs, rifling in his pocket. He draws out a bobby pin, which Clarke doesn’t even think to question, and goes down on one knee to be at eye level with the knob. His tongue sticks out the corner of his mouth and Clarke’s arms tense briefly around herself.

Bellamy snaps the bobby pin in two, bending one end and feeding it into the lock of the door before inserting the other half above it, his forehead crinkled in concentration. For one terrifying second - but not the first time - Clarke wants to reach down and smooth away the creases in his brow, wants to tell him to forget the pins and stand up. Wants to kiss him.

She shakes the thoughts away, stepping backwards quickly and biting her lip so hard that she feels the skin split under the force of her teeth. Clarke worries her tongue over the skin, the metallic tang of her blood sour on her tongue. It’s at the exact moment that she sucks her lower lip behind her teeth that Bellamy looks up, and his eyes immediately latch onto her mouth, pupils dilating.

He gets up slowly, one leg at a time, before stretching languidly. His t-shirt rides up as he raises his arms, and Clarke’s gaze drops to Bellamy’s stomach, eyes dragging over the expanse of tanned skin revealed. She swallows hard, tilting her head towards the ceiling quickly.

“You alright?” Bellamy asks, concern clear in his voice. “Your lip’s bleeding.”

“Hm? I’m fine,” Clarke replies quickly, meeting his eyes and blushing fiercely. It’s one thing to ogle your roommate, it’s another to be so caught up in staring that you physically hurt yourself. She can’t bear to look at him; she needs to escape.

“Any chance that door’ll be open any time soon?” she asks, trying for casual. She doesn’t think she succeeds, if the hurt that flickers across Bellamy’s face is any indication. Still, he doesn’t press her, instead dropping back down to his knees with a tiny groan and picking up the discarded bobby pin.

“Give me five minutes,” he mutters over his shoulder. Clarke nods even though he can’t see her, sinking down onto the cool wood of the floor and leaning her head against the wall, watching the muscles of Bellamy’s back shift as he works the lock. She closes her eyes and sighs tiredly, the stress that’s been the only thing keeping her going since her conversation with Wells finally melting away.

“Hey. It’s done.”

Bellamy’s voice is quiet, and Clarke opens one eye to see him hovering over her. She scrambles up quickly, ignoring the hand he stretched out to help her. It’s easier to tell herself that it was accidental when she can’t see his face, so she purposefully avoids eye contact as she dusts off her palms on her jeans.

“Right!” she exclaims, falsely cheerful. “Maybe we should think about getting people home? After all, it’s…”

She breaks off to check her watch, wincing when she realises the time.

“Holy shit, it’s nearly three A.M.”

Bellamy groans in reply, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. He swings the door open, wincing as it smashes into the opposite wall with a bang.

“Once more unto the breach, I suppose,” he says, holding the door open as Clarke passes him.

A chuckle bubbles out of Clarke despite herself, and she smiles over her shoulder.

“You’re seriously quoting Shakespeare right now?” she asks, smoothly bending over to grab a thrown-away beer can.

Bellamy smirks in response, crossing the floor to push the furniture back into place. 

"I nearly majored in English, you know. Had dreams of being a writer, but I didn't have the confidence."

"You didn't?" Clarke repeats, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

"Yeah, actually," he says, planting his hands on one side of the couch and chuckling a bit. "I kept thinking: what if I can't get a job, or I'm not successful. Who will help support Octavia? It kind of all came down to money, in the end. Teaching was the in-between. I really like it, and it pays alright.”

“Wow,” Clarke says absently, at a lack of words.

She can’t even begin to imagine that kind of pressure, especially growing up with her parents. When she dropped out of med school, money wasn’t even a concern. Actually, she was quite happy to waste the tuition cost. It just felt like getting back at her mom for pressuring her into medical school. Money has always been a weapon for Clarke; a tool. It’s only in the last few years of being cut off that she’s really thought about it.

She looks up at Bellamy, hoping he sees the respect in her eyes. He does, she thinks, and a smile touches his lips.

“You guys need help?” Wick suddenly asks, poking his head out from the kitchen.

“This asshole made it twice as hard, but our toaster’s finally back together,” Raven adds, walking up just behind him with a black trash bag in hand.

“Hey! It’s new _and_ improved.”

“We do, actually,” Bellamy answers. “Hey, race to see who can clean up faster? Dibs on Raven, we get this side and you two get that one? ”

Wick walks over to Clarke’s side of the room, offering her a high-five, which she takes.

“Hey,” he says, “winner can have the pile of tester toast we made.”

Clarke holds back a scoff at the waste of bread, scolding herself. Instead she grins, reaching to grab the trash bag out of Raven’s hands.

“You’re going down!”

It’s fun and fast and whenever she stops to catch her breath, she sways to the sound of faint music and Raven and Wick shittalking each other. They all take it seriously at first, but soon are cracking up into laughter as Raven starts pushing all the empty beer cans from her side onto theirs.

“Cheater!” Clarke accuses, but she picks them up anyways.

Later they all sit on top of the kitchen island, feet swinging as they pass around an unreasonably huge plate of toast. Various half-opened jars of spreads and jams decorate the counter, but Clarke thinks it’s a huge step up from empty bottles and cups and cans.

Wick’s acquired a pair of pants, thank god, though Clarke thinks they might be Miller’s. Raven’s leaning on him sleepily, steadily taking out her stake of the shared snack.

“I had a good night,” Bellamy states, breaking the silence. His feet are dangling as he sits on the counter across from Clarke, and every so often his heels will thud against the cabinets with a hollow clunking sound. There’s peanut butter smudged on the corner of his mouth, and it makes her smile.

“Same, man,” Wick seconds, raising a piece of toast towards him in salute.

“Me too,” Clarke adds, quieter than usual.

Bellamy looks at her and smiles, and there’s a familiar tight feeling in her throat. Only this time it’s accompanied by thoughts of his eyes burning into hers, and his hand on her waist. She looks away quickly, swallowing.

Then suddenly Wick lets out a laugh. Clarke turns to see that Raven has clocked out on his shoulder, still holding some toast.

“I’ve got it,” Clarke says quickly, standing. “Wick, are you staying the night?”

“No, no, I’m on my way out,” he assures her, lifting Raven off his side a little her mouth drops open slightly, and she doesn’t stir.

Clarke scoops her arms under Raven and pulls her off the island. Her shoulders drop with the weight, but they hold. Bellamy and Wick stand too, Wick scratching the back of his head while he looks down at this legs.

“Hey Bellamy, do you know who’s pants there are?”

Clarke manages to get Raven into the living area, noting faint music still playing somewhere in the apartment, coming from one of their rooms. The only other sounds are her laboured breathing and Bellamy and Wick’s quiet conversation as they try to track down his actual clothes.

“Why the fuck,” Clarke mutters between breaths at her unconscious roommate, “are you so heavy!?”

Raven’s head lolls in response. Clarke scoffs, contemplating letting her sleep on the floor. But she looks back up to see how much farther she has to go, and her eyes land on the couch instead.

 _Good enough,_ she thinks, setting Raven down. _At least someone will be sleeping soundly tonight._

The asshole hasn’t even stirred, and continues to sleep soundly. Clarke sighs and sits on the edge of the couch next to Raven, forcing a tight smile.

“I should get going.”

Clarke looks up in surprise, seeing Wick standing near the door. His eyes are glued to Raven, and Clarke’s smile melts into something a little more genuine.

“You got a ride?” she asks.

“Taxi,” he says with a nod, toeing on his shoes. Clarke can see he’s got his own clothing back on now, which saves her having to explain to Miller why his favourite sweats are missing. “Thanks for having me, guys.”

“Anytime,” Bellamy says from across the room, behind Clarke.

“Now get out of our apartment,” Clarke jokes, making Wick crack a grin.

“Alright, chief, I’m on it,” Wick assures, sneaking one last look at Raven before heading out the door.

It’s quiet now. The music has stopped, and Raven snores lightly. Clarke exhales, leaning her chin on her hand, elbow propped on her knee. Her hair obscures her peripheral vision, but she can make out Bellamy yawning and stretching his back.

“Are you headed to bed?” he asks after a moment, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Clarke shakes her head and stands.

“You go ahead, I’ll clean up the kitchen.”

Bellamy nods at her, and Clarke lets her gaze drop to the floor. She furrows her brow, trying to figure out when the world started feeling so small. When she looks around, at him, their friends, their home… everything outside just drops away. Like even if the world fell to pieces, she’d be okay, because they’d be there with her.

She listens to him pad toward the hall, open the sliding door and close it behind him, leaving Clarke alone with her thoughts.

*****

"Crazy night, huh?"

Clarke smiles wryly and half-turns to face Bellamy, still clutching her door handle. The hallway is empty safe for them, Raven still passed out on the couch.

"You could say that," she nods, looking up at him through her eyelashes. He's changed since she saw him last, jeans and shirt replaced with worn-thin sweatpants and a green t-shirt that looks soft enough to fall asleep on.

“I’m sorry about earlier, by the way,” she continues. Bellamy’s eyebrow quirks up and she shakes her head before speaking. “No, I need to apologise, I was stressed and on edge and that _stupid_ game--”

“Hey,” Bellamy interjects, a smile spreading across his face at last. “You love True American.”

Clarke grins despite herself.

“Okay, so maybe I can’t blame it all on the game. But I _was_ stressed, and our stupid attempt at setting up Miller and Monty… backfired,” she trails off, gesturing vaguely between her and Bellamy.

His smile deepens at that, and Clarke tilts her head, confused.

Bellamy leans forward, closing the gap between them, and winks conspiratorially. It shouldn’t send shivers down her spine, but she’s beginning to accept that she’ll find pretty much anything Bellamy Blake does ridiculously attractive.

“Actually,” he says, voice low. “I think it worked better than expected, ‘cause when I went into Miller’s room earlier to thank him for the lock-picking lesson, he wasn’t alone.”

“They weren’t…” Clarke asks, stuck somewhere between wanting to cheer and wanting to be grossed out. As much as she loves Miller, and as nice as Monty seemed, she really doesn’t need the mental image that her brain is currently painting.

“No, thankfully,” Bellamy grimaces. “It was worse. They were _cuddling_.”

Clarke squeals despite herself, then remembers that it’s four in the morning and everyone else in the apartment is sleeping.

“I’m so glad our plan worked,” she whispers in a vain attempt to calm down.

“Even with the unexpected additions?” Bellamy asks, and Clarke can see right through his confident mask.

“I meant what I said,” she breathes, suddenly brave, not caring that what she’s about to say might ruin everything they’ve built. “The first time we kiss? I don’t want it to be because of a game.”

Everything happens so quickly after that, the moment full of _here_ and _now_. Clarke remembers it later in detail, like a movie stopped and played frame for frame.

One second she’s standing there, Bellamy still a respectable distance away, and her breath is caught in her throat, choking her with unsaid words. Then she turns away, hand giving the doorknob a quarter twist as she clenches her jaw in a mix of exhilaration and embarrassment.

Before she can open her door, Bellamy’s hand wraps around her forearm, spinning her towards him and pulling her in, fitting their bodies together like puzzle pieces. It's awkward at first, just like everything else is for them; Clarke’s a little too short - stepping on his toes before righting herself - and Bellamy’s a little too eager, his mouth slanted over hers before she has a chance to get her bearings.

Even with all that, she sinks into the kiss, closing her eyes sighing into Bellamy’s mouth as his hand slides into her hair, cradling the nape of her neck as his other hand wraps nearly the whole way around her back. Kissing him feels like coming home, feels like everything thing she wanted but didn’t think she deserved. It’s like a movie come to life, dragging on for minutes, seconds, forever, and Clarke never wants it to end, doesn’t want to go back to the real world.

The hand Bellamy has fisted in her hair tugs slightly, and she whines high in her throat, pressing that much closer to him. She loops her arms around his neck, twisting her fingers into the curls at the back of his head, and pulls him down, breathing harshly and gasping for air.

But Bellamy’s slowing, winding the fervour down with sweet, slow kisses, and Clarke finally opens her eyes. She meets his brown ones and smiles shyly, toying with the neckline of his shirt where it gapes slightly from where he’s leant over.

“Hey,” she whispers, and Bellamy’s gaze softens, his hand untwining from her hair to join the other on the small of her back.

“Hey,” he repeats, and licks his lips nervously. “Earlier, did you mean something like that?”

At that a warm feeling blooms in her chest, and Clarke tries not to melt into a puddle on the floor. _Hold yourself together, idiot,_ she chastises herself. Then an idea pops into mind and Clarke grins wickedly.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, feigning disappointment even though she knows that Bellamy’s seen the joy spread across her face. “I’m not sure if it was quite what I’m looking for, you might have to try again.”

“Oh really?” Bellamy smirks, suddenly confident. “I guess I’ll see what I can do.”

He draws closer, and Clarke’s just rising up onto her tiptoes when the atmosphere is completely shattered.

Raven, who they’d both assumed was dead on the couch, has woken up and makes her presence known. Loudly. And inconsiderately, which isn’t unusual when it comes to a drunk Raven Reyes, given that she’s possibly the most argumentative person alive - and that’s when she’s sober.

“Someone please tell me that Miller spilled beer on the clock again and it’s actually only 1 AM,” she announces, walking up to the closed sliding door that separates the living room and hallway.

Bellamy’s eyes widen a little as Clarke jumps back, putting space between them.

“No,” Clarke answers quickly as Raven opens the door. Her voice sounds strained, so she tries again, forcing her tense shoulders to relax. “He’s too busy taking a nap with the enemy. Bellamy was just telling me about it.”

Bellamy’s frown deepens, so Clarke widens her eyes pleadingly at him. She doesn’t care how desperate she must look, she just knows that her roommates _can’t_ know about them. A moment ago things had been so simple, but now…

“Yeah, it’s sickeningly cute,” Bellamy adds, still looking at Clarke watchfully.

Clarke avoids his eyes by staring at Raven, waiting for her to inevitably pick up on the tension in the room and call them out. But instead she just grins, leaning against the doorframe of the hall.

“Wick owes me twenty bucks!” she crows. “He knows Monty from University, said it would take at _least_ a week for the guy to make a move. Thank God we let them win TA, else neither of them would’ve been drunk enough to flirt.”

“Wait, you two were plotting as well?” Clarke asks, thankful for the change in subject.

“Fuck yeah! I need an inside man to get back at Jasper. I kept my distance from the bastard tonight so he’d let his guard down, but soon…” Raven grins mischievously.

“Apparently it takes a village,” remarks Bellamy, but Clarke can see the way his shoulders are tense and he watches her out of the corner of his eye, waiting.

“Anyways, night guys,” Raven says, nearing her bedroom. “Bellamy, your turn for hangover breakfast tomorrow!”

“We’ll see about that,” he answers dryly as the door swings shut behind Raven.

Clarke sags against the wall, then turns to grin in relief at Bellamy. But his lips are pinched in a tight line, and his hand is fiddling with the doorknob of his room.

“Oh,” Clarke says, her grin melting away. “Right. We should probably talk about…”

“No, you know, it’s fine, really. If you don’t want--”

“No! No, I want this. You,” she interrupts, taking his hand. “I just don’t want them to know, okay? It can just be between us.”

Bellamy hesitates, and Clarke can tell that he wants to ask questions. He has a right to know why, but the problem is that Clarke doesn’t even have any answers herself. She rubs her thumb in anxious circles on the back of his hand, praying that he doesn’t press her.

“Bellamy?”

“At least it saves us from Octavia constantly asking when’s the wedding,” he remarks with a smile, making Clarke laugh.

She rocks back on her heels with relief, then forward to pull him close and kiss him again, sweet and quick.

She pulls away first to hug him, whispering, “Goodnight,” into the crook of his neck.

He says nothing, only holds her tight before she turns away and slips inside her room. His fingers brush as she pulls her hands away from his, closing the door on him.

Her heartbeat is wild, and she leans her head against the back of the door to settle her breathing. Her hand is still clenching the doorknob, and it takes a moment to peel her fingers off. She wrings her hands together, trying to process her thoughts.

Clarke doesn’t know how she feels. Relieved? Happy? Excited?

 _He said ‘us,’_ her brain echoes, and a smile fights its way onto her face.

She wipes her damp hands on the front of her tank top, then reaches up to rake a hand through her hair. Her eyes find the alarm clock beside her bed, and her expression drops as she sees that it really is 3AM. Her energy finally gives out, seeping out of her as she steps toward her bed. She climbs under the covers stiffly, wrapping herself up.

 _Did that really just happen?_ she thinks.

Her memory is still flashing with bits and pieces of the night as she lies there, curled into herself. Miller laughing, loud and bright. Raven’s sharp words contrasted by her easy smile. Octavia’s hair flying, smile frozen in time to the beat of some awful pop song. Lincoln looking softly at her sleeping on the couch, then waving goodbye as he carried her away. Monty’s grin after scoring the miracle three-pointer junk yard shot from the far corner of the living room. Wick splayed on the couch, balancing empty beer cans on his forehead.

Bellamy happy, catching up with lifelong friends. Bellamy hunched over laughing, his abs giving way to little pudge rolls. Bellamy sliding around on sock-clad feet, cleaning up their living room. Bellamy’s cocky grin as he sings the national anthem at the top of his lungs. The way he ducks his head when he smiles. The softness of his eyes fluttering shut as he kisses. His hands at her waist, her back, her hair, her face. Bellamy this, Bellamy that.

Her fists curl into her blanket, face pushed into her pillow.

She falls asleep uncertain. Thinking of him. Of them. What’s going to become of them?

_It can just be between us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic has been such an amazing journey, and I'm sorry again for the delay on this chapter! We really love writing it, and were drawing it out as long as possible. But the story isn't over yet!
> 
> We can tell you that we're considering a sequel, so keep an eye out! We're [_clarkegriffvn_](http://clarkegriffvn.tumblr.com) and [_wullgorski_](http://wullgorski.tumblr.com) on tumblr, so follow us for updates on it. 
> 
> NEWS: Bellarke writers! We're starting a tumblr network just for you! The post with all the info is right [_here._](http://clarkegriffvn.tumblr.com/post/131357379881/clarkegriffvn-do-you-think-of-bellarke-fic)
> 
> And again, thank you all for your patience. It means so much to us that you've stuck around. Please please please leave a comment! What did you think? Did you expect the kiss? Hopefully it wasn't awful and you hated it, but we're open to criticism haha


End file.
